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THE VOICE ON 
THE MOUNTAIN 




NEW BORZOI NOVELS 
FALL, 1923 

JANE-OUR STRANGER 

Mary Borden 

THE BACHELOR GIRL 

Victor Margueritte 

THE BLIND BOW-BOY 
Carl Van Vechten 

HEART’S BLOOD 
Ethel M, Kelley 

THE BACK SEAT 
G. B. Stem 

JANET MARCH 
Floyd Dell 

A LOST LADY 

fVilla Gather 

LOVE DAYS 

Henrie Waste 


THE VOICE ON 
THE MOUNTAIN 


A Story for those who Understand 

by MARIE, Queen of Roumania 

vtv Y\y<xy 



New York ALFRED • A • KNOPF Mctnxxui 


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COPTRIGHT, 1923, BY ALFRED A. KNOPF, INC. 
Published, October, 1923 



■» 3 


Bet up, electrotyped, and printed by the Vail-Ballou Co., Binghamton, N. Y. 
Paper furnished by W. F. Etherington & Co., New York. 

Bound by the Plimpton Press, Norwood, Mass. 


MANUFACTURED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA 




Dedicated to A/., 

who more than any other lives with my thoughts^ 


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''Lift not this painted veil 
Which those who live call life.” 

Shelley. 


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THE VOICE ON 
THE MOUNTAIN 


I 




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I 


. . . 'And all are crying for hopes beyond 
the sunsets, fot joys beyond the 
stars. . . . 


M. R. 


HEY were all climbing the steep mountain 



path. The sun was in their eyes, blinding 


them, but they did not linger, they did not 
stop; bravely they pushed forward, for were they not 
eager to reach the top? 

Of all ages they were, men, women, and children, 
but their expressions were the same, for the same 
hope lay within their hearts. Few words passed be¬ 
tween them. They were strangers to each other. 
They had come from many lands. Some were foot¬ 
sore, lame, and dusty, with clothes soiled by sun and 
rain. But their eyes had a curious resemblance— 
the resemblance of worshippers believing in one and 
the same faith. 

A strange name were they whispering, and that 
name seemed to bind them together as though with 
a golden thread. Glava, was the name that hovered 
on every tongue—Glava! and when they said it, it 
was as though something very precious were falling 
from their lips. Jhen their eyes would meet and a 


II 


The Voice on the Mountain 


12 


quiet smile of understanding would pass among those 
strangers who had come from many lands. 

'‘Will she be there to-day?’' asked an old woman 
as she toiled along with weary steps. 

A young voice answered her out of the crowd, a 
voice she had never heard before. "She is always 
there when one needs her. But it seems that at 
times a great woe comes over her, and then she hides 
away in the dark.” 

"Is it true that her ways are wild and that she 
rides a fire-coloured horse? That a bubbling stream 
springs from beneath her doorstep, and that no one 
—no one has ever penetrated within her house?” 

Some one else had asked the question, and again 
another repied: "Yes, her stallion has the colour 
of sunset, and she carries a spear in her hand—a 
spear that lights in the dark. The galloping of her 
steed can be heard on nights of storm, for at times 
she is driven by a wild and inexplicable unrest. The 
forests love her—each tree is her friend. The dawn 
kisses her feet when she awakens, and the sunsets 
steal close to her heart. In Spring the birds greet 
her, and in Autumn the leaves fall as she passes, so 
as to form a golden carpet for her feet. The snows 
of winter cover her dwelling with a powder of shim¬ 
mering crystals, and all the stars of heaven look 
down upon it, blessing it with their light. Her hair 
is dark, as though the sorrow of humanity had hung 
its veil over her head. But no warrior can ride so 
surely, and it is said that she can see in the dark.” 




13 


The Voice on the Mountain 


“I am bringing her a precious gift/' said a man, 
raising a golden goblet above his head. 

“She needs no gifts \” 'cried a youth with the face 
of a dreamer. “Wisdom is hers, and it flows from 
her lips like water from’ eternal sources. It needs 
neither gold nor precious stones to lure her into our 
midst. She comes, she sees, she gives, she blesses— 
because she understands—" 

“Hast thou ever seen her?" asked many voices 
together, arid a’great yearning sounded through their 
words. 

“No, I have never seen her/' answered the youth, 
“but I feel her here in my soul as though we had 
always been together, as though her blood had 
flowed in my veins!" 

“Thou art a dreamer," scoffed an old man at his 
side. “Thou believest in wonders and miracles, in 
things that have no place on this earth." 

“Why should we be climbing this mountain?" 
asked a woman with a haggard countenance, press¬ 
ing a sickly child to her breast. “Why should we be 
climbing this mountain if we did not believe and 
hope for miracles, if we did not expect to find Glava 
a being unlike ourselves?" 

“I climb because I want to see," said the old man. 

“And 1 because I am lonely," said another. 

“And I because I want help." 

“And I because I am weary." 

“And I because my heart is aching." 

“And I because I am a disbeliever!" 




The Voice on the Mountain 


14 


"'And I because 1 need love/' 

'‘And I because I hope to reach fame!” 

“And I because my life is empty.” 

“And I because I have looked into hell and hope to 
find heaven.” 

Many voices cried out the words, the sentences 
rising and falling, tumbling over each other like 
waves straining toward a distant shore. 

“Who is she?” asked some one. 

“A goddess? a saint? a witch? an immortal? A 
being such as legends have created, a fear and a joy 
to those who live in the plains beneath.” 

“She is Glava,” said the youth with the dreamer's 
eyes—“Glava! and her name is blessed. Her words 
are of gold, and the touch of her hands is such that 
it can cure every sickness; the sound of her voice 
can heal any pain—” 

“But it is said that no happiness lives in her soul; 
it is said that a secret sorrow is her only companion 
by day and by night. The voice that said this was 
toneless, like the voice of some one who has come 
from very far. 

An old man answered it, and his words fell one 
by one like weights dropping to the ground. “Eter¬ 
nal sources can flow from beneath a gravestone, and 
even from a heart that is broken a radiant light can 
shine.” 

“Is her heart broken?” asked a very small child, 
an awesome wonder rising in its eyes. 

“We know it not,” answered the old man, “but 




15 


The Voice on the Mountain 


we are going toward her with hope in our souls, for 
every man imagines that the morrow may bring 
him, what the passing day has not brought/’' 

After those words a .hush fell over the climbers, 
and the sound of their feet alone disturbed the si¬ 
lence of the mountain pass. 


I 




II 


Your questioning eyes are sad. They 
seek to know my meaning a$^ the moon 
would fathom the sea. 

Tagore. 

<<^’T^HEY are coming/' said Glava. “I hear their 
I footsteps. There are many of them; like a 
swollen river that rolls its waters upward 
instead of downward, they are advancing toward me; 
1 think I hear their sighs, and many of them are in 
distress." 

Glava was standing on the threshold of her dwell¬ 
ing, the sun pouring down upon her head. She 
was speaking over her shoulder to some one in the 
chamber beyond. Her voice was strong and sono¬ 
rous; she never raised it, yet one felt certain that 
it could reach further than any ‘Other voice. The 
light had taken possession of her.body, lingering upon 
it as though amorous of each fold of her gown. 
Strange was its colour as all was strange about this 
woman—her face, her attire, her movements, the ex¬ 
pression of her eyes, the smile of her lips. There 
was something mysterious about her, something 
tranquil that resembled a sleeping ocean before the 

storm awakes. Even her gaze seemed to be slumber- 

16 


17 


The Voice on the Mountain 


ing in unfathomed depths; it was as though she 
looked inward instead of outward, and her hands 
appeared to be waiting to give some treasure which 
she alone possessed. 

''Are they near?'" asked a voice from within the 
house—a curiously toneless voice, that sounded like 
an old song which some one remembers when weary, 
when sleep begins to steal over his brain. 

"No, they are still far,'' said Glava, "but I feel 
the pulsing of their hearts within my own." 

"Glava!" 

"Yes!" 

"Art thou tired?" 

Glava turned and, entering the low chamber be¬ 
hind her: "1 am not tired," she said. 

"Never tired, Glava?" 

"No," said Glava, "never tired." 

"Glava, dost thou always speak the truth?" 

"Where is truth?" said Glava. "Does it lie 
close to the clouds of heaven? or think ye that 
1 tread upon it when my feet pass over the 
ground?" 

"Glava, art thou tired?" repeated the voice; and 
something like ill-contained anxiety rang through 
the words. 

Glava had entered a low chamber, large, spacious, 
shadowy. At the farther end a long broad window 
let in ari unexpected light; and near this window, 
upon a fur-covered couch, lay a man—a man with a 
wonderful face. The light of the window fell full 




The Voice on the Mountain 


18 


upon it, revealing its extraordinary paleness and its 
sunken indescribable eyes—the eyes of a mystic, of 
a martyr—eyes full of extraordinary pain. The] 
man had the expression which great masters have 
carved upon images of the dying Christ. The re¬ 
semblance was enhanced by the long hair and by 
the soft fair beard that covered cheeks and chin. 
The head was reclining amongst cushions. Naught 
was to be seen of the body except two emaciated 
arms which lay on the cover. This was drawn up 
over his breast. Two emaciated arms and two 
colourless hands rested there like holy effigies on the 
tomb of some saint. 

Glava went up to the couch and laid the tips of 
her fingers against one of those hands. The man’s 
eyes closed for an instant as though that touch filled 
him with ineffable well-being. 

''I am never tired, Gorromo, never tired—I am not 
of those whose bodies complain. My limbs are of 

iron, and the blood runs like a strong stream through 
my veins.” 

“Art thou not tired of their voices, Glava? of their 
voices and desires and prayers? tired of listening to 
their complaints, tired of carrying their burdens on 
thy shoulders, their tears in thy heart?” 

It is not in vain that I was made unlike othei] 
women,” answered Glava—''with another face, witH 
other ways and other ambitions; that I was made to 
live up here on this mountain-top.” 

“Art thou not tired of thy Love, Glava?” said the 




19 


The Voice on the Mountain 


man with curious persistence. ‘‘Art thou not weary, 
weary unto death?'' 

Bending down toward the questioner, Glava very 
gently raised the marvellous head in both her hands 
—raised it and looked deep into the sorrowful eyes. 
“I am not tired of my Love, Gorromo," she said very 
simply. “I am not tired of my Love." 

“How many years is it now, Glava? how many 
years?" 

“Four," said Glava tenderly, laying his head back 
amongst its cushions. 

“Four years since I have weighted thy life?" 

“Four years since thou hast blessed my dwelling 
with thy presence," corrected Glava; “four years 
since that stormy winter's night when—" 

“Four years since I have lain here useless—a bur¬ 
den, immovable, living yet dead!" 

“Four years since 1 have drunk from the inex¬ 
haustible sources of thy wisdom, Gorromo—since I 
have leant upon the never-failing courage of thy 
heart!" And, throwing herself with a sudden move¬ 
ment to her knees, Glava laid her head upon the sad 
man’s breast. 

“It is 1, Glava," said he, “who have been drawing 
upon thy strength; it is thou who hast been giving 
and giving—it is thou who has kept me alive with 
thy love!" 

Glava did not answer. She had closed her eyes; 
her head moved slightly up and down with the 
breathing of the man's breast. Her long lashes lay 





The Voice on the Mountain 


20 


like a shadow on her cheeks; grave, almost stern, was 
the line of her lips; like a curtain of dusk her tresses 
flowed over her shoulders down to the floor. 

An ineffable peace pervaded the chamber—an at¬ 
mosphere akin to that of a church. Something mys¬ 
terious, inexplicable, something almost holy, lay over 
these two strange beings whom some past joy—or 

was it sorrow?—seemed to have linked together in 
a common fate. 

''Because of me thou hast no sorrow,” spoke the 
man. "Because of me thine eyes alone have share in 
the joys of spring, whilst it were thy right to live, 
to feel, to enjoy, according to the warm young blood 
that courses through thy veins!” 

Because of thee, answered Glava, "each day I 
feel a new strength within me, a strength that en¬ 
ables me to give and give with ever full hands— 
give all that others need of me. My word has be¬ 
come law; they one and all believe that my touch 
can heal. I have become an oracle unto them, be¬ 
cause I pronounce the words which thou hast put 
into my soul.” 

"But what hast thou for thyself, Glava?” 

I have thee, Gorromo—I have thee!” 

Does it suffice thee, Glava? ^ A sound of anguish 
was in the man s voice. Glava did not answer im¬ 
mediately, so the question was repeated, but lower, 
as though the lips that pronounced it were afraid of 
the answer they might receive. 

It sufficeth me, said Glava, and her voice was 




21 


The Voice on the Mountain 


like that of a priest's praying before an altar when 
no one is nigh. 

Silence lay for a while over the man and the 
woman, and then Gorromo asked: ''Are they not 
coming nearer, Glava?" 

"Yes," said Glava, rising to her feet. "Soon they 
will be here." 

"Wilt thou not clothe thyself in white to receive 
them? in white, as is thy wont?" 

"Yes," said Glava, bending down to kiss his fore¬ 
head. "1 must be worthily attired, for they believe 
in me as they believe in the sun that rises every 
morning beyond the limits of their world." 

"Dost thou not believe in thyself, Glava?" 

"There are things that exist in spite of one's be¬ 
lief or disbelief," was the enigmatic answer. "Often 
it is the belief of others that can lead one to one's 
own height. Many hands outstretched toward one 
can teach one to draw from sources one knew not to 
exist. The great need of others lifts one above 
oneself. The hands of those who give are always 
full, for the wisdom of the heart is limitless; the 
grief of others enables it to discover a thousand 
ways." 

"Glava! Glava!" cried the man, covering his face 
with his hands; and difficult it were to know if he 
cried out in pain or in joy. 

Again Glava kissed him; then slowly she moved 
away from the bed. 

The sufferer uncovered his face and stared after 




The Voice on the Mountain 


22 


her, his soul in his eyes; then, turning toward the 
window, he gazed out upon the wide horizon that 
stretched before him. 

'The skies withhold their knowledge,"' he mur¬ 
mured. In vain do I ask of them the verities I long 
to know. Deep as the ocean is the heart of woman, 
and it is not given to man to see what sleeps in its 
depths; nor have I ever been able to decipher the 
message that lies dormant behind Glava's eyes. But 
I know that it lies there—I have felt it. One day it 
may awaken. But that day—that day will be 
another s—that day will no more be mine!" 

Then again the man with the eyes of sorrow cov¬ 
ered his face with his hands. . . . 




V 


III 

I 

It was as though hearing between her 
hands her own heart she were lifting it 
up for sacrifice and worship, 

Hellett. 

RAW my couch close up to the window. I 

I I want to see her. She is marvellous when 
^ she stands there, like a goddess with her 
spear in her hand.'' 

''And it will be no spear she has in her hand to¬ 
day: both her hands are resting upon the hilt of a 
naked sword." 

It was an old woman who spoke. She was lean¬ 
ing out of the window, both palms pressed upon the 
sill, her dim eyes straining toward the spot where 
Glava stood. 

"Draw my couch nearer, Volona; have pity upon 
my helplessness. Quickly, Volona! my eyes are 
athirst for her face. Volona, Volona, make haste!" 

The old woman turned toward Gorromo. She was 
of unusual stature, tall, upright, with remnants of 
past beauty. Strangely did her white hair contrast 
with the dark brown that shaded her sunken orbs. 
In straight lines her black gown flowed down over 
her gaunt limbs. Her shoulders were square, and her 
hands were large and strong like those of a man. 

23 


The Voice on the Mountain 


24 


Round her waist she wore a leathern girdle into 
which a dagger had been thrust. 

'"Art so eager for a sight of her face! and sure 
she has quitted thee but a second ago!'' said the 
old woman somewhat sternly, complying nevertheless 
with Gorromo's wishes by pushing the high couch 
close up to the window so that he could gaze out¬ 
side without raising his head. 

•'Her face is my world," said the man, "and when 
my eyes are upon her it is to me as though she had 
more strength to divide amongst those that come 
to ask her help. I hear not their words, but me- 
seems my soul is speaking in hers when she answers." 

Volona was arranging the cushions under the suf¬ 
ferer s head, and whilst doing so she was gazing in 
the same direction as her master. "Yes," agreed the 
old servant, "and methinks it is right that thou 
art. It is as though some voice not her own were 
speaking with her tongue. Often I had the thought 
of my thinking that she is in a trance when thus 
she touches the sick and heals them, finding those 
strange words that console the broken-hearted— 
those words that the hopeless will be carrying back 
with them like bread upon which they can feed." 

"Was she always thus?" asked Gorromo. 

And it is always strange and mysterious that she 
has been," said the old woman guardedly. 

"Volona, wilt thou never answer me with absolute 

truth? Wilt thou never answer my question unto the 
end?" 




25 


The Voice on the 'Mountain 


'The length of a truth, I am thinking, is not 
measured by words,” said the old woman, "nor will 
human hearts be gardens within which all hands may 
be plucking blossoms.” 

"Are my hands stranger's hands?” 

"Each soul, I am thinking, has a right to its own 
corner of shadow,” said the servant. 

^'Are there many shadows in Glava's soul? 
Speak, Volona!” 

"Look at her as she stands there, tall and radiant 
in her flowing garb; look how the sun lies over her, 
and thou shalt be answering for thyself, if she seems 
to be a lover of things that are dark.” 

"Volona, I would like to tear speech from thy 
tongue!” cried Gorromo, and there was a rising 
anguish in his voice. 

The gaunt woman laid a strong hand upon the 
sick man's forehead. "Be at peace, my lord,” said 
her curious voice. "Glava will be standing so far 
above other mortals that no tongue could bring her 
nearer to those who do not understand. I will not 
be 'for understanding her, I accept her as one of the 
laws of nature, thanking Fate that allowed me to 
tread the same earth over which her shadow falls. 
Some beings are like stars I am thinking, that shine 
in dark skies. One loves their light, but to see them 
one must be lifting one's head.” 

"Glava is more than a star,” said Gorromo. "To 
me she is as an eternal dawn rising in never-ending 
glory.” 




The Voice on the Mountain 


26 


”\ will be preferring the stars/' said Volona. 
''One can look at them without closing one's eyes." 

"I feel as though I carried all her light in my 
heart," said Gorromo, pressing his hands to his 
breast. 

"Therefore it is that thou art never at rest, I am 
thinking," said Volona. "Man needs the shadows of 
night as well as the glories of dawn. Nature has 
given us darkness after the day so that we should 
sleep part of our lives; otherwise one heart would 
not be sufficing us till the end of our road." 

"I see her light also when I sleep," murmured 
Gorromo. "In the middle of the night it often 
seems to me that her heart is beating here in mine!" 

"Look!" cried the old servant, interrupting his 
words, "look! And it is coming they are! The first 
have already reached the top of the mountain. See! 
a poor woman has laid her infant down at Glava's 
feet—an old man is touching the hem of her gown! 
—a beautiful youth has put a rose into her hand- 
three old hags have fallen on their knees before her 
—and I am seeing several priests amongst the crowd, 
and soldiers with spears and shields, and rich men 
in sumptuous attire. There are beggars, and even 
lepers, and many little children. And it is straining 
toward her they are, stretching out their hands! 
Now Glava has laid her sword on the ground!" 

Volona had skilfully passed her hands beneath the 
sufferer's shoulders and was holding him against her 
breast. With wide-open eyes both were 'following 




27 


The Voice on the Mountain 


Glava's movements, rapid exclamations escaping 
their lips close upon each other, sometimes cried out 
in a single breath. 

''It is talking she is!" 

"See how they listen!" 

"They treat her as though she were a saint! when 
they touch the folds of her vestment, each one will 
be believing that he is healed!" 

"Oh! see the light in the eyes of that boy; it is as 
though he were looking through the gates of 
Heaven!" 

"And wilt thou be seeing how that tall man has 
laid a crown at her feet?" 

"The small children cluster around her; she bends 
down to them, she takes them in her arms, she lays 
her lips on their curls. Ah! look at those women, at 
those many women—it is as though they were cast¬ 
ing all their sorrow from their hearts into hers!" 

"See, the priests will be blessing her with upraised 
hands. And the soldiers will be touching her gown 
with their spears; they have laid their shields at her 
feet on the ground.” 

"They are casting flowers before her, flowers and 
branches of palms!" 

"See the golden-headed urchin who toddles up to 
her with a dove in his arms. And it is now the crip¬ 
ple boy who will be casting his crutches away to 
stand upright, unsupported, folding his hands in 
prayer whilst his eyes devour her with hungry looks! 
And the old man, oh! see the old man who will be 




The Voice on the Mountain 


28 


clasping her waist and who will be crying with his 
head on her bosom, like a weary wanderer who has 
reached his home at last!'' 

''How can she bear it? how can she bear it?" 
gasped Gorromo, and Volona let him sink from her 
arms into the cushions, where he remained without 
movement, his eyes closed, his face pale as death. 
"How can she bear it?" he murmured again. 

Volona approached the window and leant far out 
Marvellous was the view on this side of the house. 
Those who climbed the steep mountain pass were 
quite unprepared for the sight that met them when 
they reached the summit. A sudden illimitable 
stretch of blue bordered their horizon, revealing to 
them that it was the sea that lay beneath them—the 
sea in its endless, mysterious, unbounded immensity. 
The narrow path that led upward had not seemed to 
promise such a reward. Like a snake without either 
tail or head it wound and curved amidst rocks and 
crevasses, coming from the flat-lands, mounting 
toward unknown heights; but when the climber’s 
tired foot reached the top, this glorious surprise 
burst upon him like a miracle revealed to his eye. 

Glava was standing against the shimmering back¬ 
ground of blue. Upright she stood like the statue of 
a goddess, her long white robe falling in heavy folds 
to her feet, the spotted fur of a panther slung over 
one shoulder. She was crowned with a golden 
circlet, out of the sides of which two golden wings 




29 


The Voice on the Mountain 


spread like rays of light; a golden girdle was about 
her waist and golden sandals on her feet; the hilt of 
the sword that hung at her side was richly studded 
with gems. Black as night was the hair that fell 
over her back. Her strangely comprehensive hands, 
with the gesture of a sister of mercy, were pressing 
the head of an old man to her breast. Volona could 
not hear the words she was saying, but she could see 
the look in her eyes and she could see the expression 
on the old man's face. 

More and more pilgrims flocked around her. It 
was as though the earth had opened, giving passage 
to men of all kinds and degrees. Some had thrown 
themselves on the ground, some were dead tired, 
some were crushed by sickness, others bent by age, 
some were in tatters, others were clad in rich cloth¬ 
ing soiled by the dust of the road; but all had their 
eyes riveted upon Glava's face, their pupils distended 
with different expressions of longing or hope. 
Glava's white-clad figure towered above them. All 
the light from the heavens seemed to have singled 
her out, pouring down upon her, marking her as a 
being apart. 

Volona had never heard what words Glava spoke 
to those pilgrims that climbed the mountain to 
reach her voice, but a curious thing had the old 
servant observed: at the end of those hours, after 
Glava had spent her strength, her heart, and her 
sympathy upon the crowd, it was the man who 




The Voice on the Mountain 


30 


awaited her return upon his couch who seemed to be 
exhausted; but aways more luminous did Glava come 
back to his side. 

A deep sigh from Gorromo made Volona turn 
toward him. 

"'It is over/' he murmured. ''Now they will be 
leaving her, and they all have the feeling that their 
pilgrimage was not in vain!" 

"Yes, it is moving away they are,” exclaimed 
Volona. "It is kissing her hands they are, her san¬ 
dals, the hem of her dress. They have left their 
offerings scattered round her; the crown the man 
laid at her feet is shining like a light. A youth with 
wonderful eyes is staring at her; he cannot tear his 
eyes from her face. The others are all going, but the 
youth will be riveted to the spot. Now he also will 
be tearing himself away, but he turns his head many 
times, he stumbles over the stones as he goes; his 
feet raise small clouds of dust! Glava is now alone, 
like a white column of marble she will be standing 
motionless against the blue, blue sea—” 

Gorromo did not move. He lay amongst his 
cushions, his hands pressed over his eyes. 

It is coming she is, whispered Volona, bending 
toward him. 

"1 know it,” said Gorromo; "1 feel her steps in 
my heart.” 

Volona moved the cushions beneath his head, rais¬ 
ing it somewhat; and thus the two awaited the com¬ 
ing of the woman who had been adored like a saint. 





31 


The Voice on the Mountain 


9 


The door opened, and Glava stood upon the thres¬ 
hold. The sun seemed to follow her; like a golden 
river it flowed into the room beneath her feet. Her 
hands were full of flowers and her eyes full of light. 

She came toward them; and it was to the two who 
were in the shade as though all the joy of the world 
had entered with her into the house. 




IV 


'My heart longs to join in thy song, but 
vainly struggles for a voice, 

Tagore. 

D eep snow lay over the mountain world, cov¬ 
ering it with a shroud of white. Ghostly was 
its sleep beneath the cold rays of the moon. 
It had become a thing of dreams, fantastic* un¬ 
earthly, a vision ending in space. The dark pine 
forests rose out of the whiteness like prodigious 
armies of ghosts climbing unreasonable heights. 
Each hidden ravine and gloomy gorge lay revealed 
to the eye as though they had been secrets which the 
moon had discovered with her silvery light. From 
their undisputed seats in the heavens the stars 
looked down, contemplating with ecstasy the earth 
beneath. A heavy silence resembling that of the 
tomb lay over all things, filling them with a solem¬ 
nity that made the heart stand still. 

Glava's house of stone was also shrouded in white; 
but, unlike all else, this mysterious habitation was 
not sleeping. It appeared to be watching the still¬ 
ness with an immense eye of light. In a dazzling 
patch the broad window threw its radiance out over 

the snow, where it lay like a magic garden filled with 

32 


33 


The Voice on the Mountain 


flaming flowers. Like all things appertaining to 
Glava, this golden square before her dwelling was 
full of an ineffable charm. It was as though her 
heart had placed it there as a shining beacon amidst 
the shadows of night. 

Within the large chamber a great fire was leaping 
on the hearth. Gorromo's couch had been drawn up 
beside it, and the changing light of the flames played 
over his pale features, lighting them up suddenly and 
just as suddenly leaving them in the dark; for no 
other light was burning in the room. 

Glava was standing with her back to the blaze. 
Blue, bordered with gold, was the long loose robe 
she wore; her hair was plaiied in two thick plaits 
that fell down over her bosom, baring the nape of 
her neck; her white arms were raised, and her white 
fingers were busy polishing the blade of a sword. 
Unusual, no doubt, was this work for a maiden. 
Fascinated, Gorromo watched the shining steel be¬ 
tween the fingers of the woman he loved. As usual 
his eyes devoured her countenance, seeming to drink 
life from her face, to absorb her beauty like a nar¬ 
cotic that could still any suffering, ease any longing, 
lifting him beyond his pain. 

A strange song was Glava singing as she flashed 
the blade hither and thither over her head. And 
Glava’s voice was not as other voices. It seemed 
rather to be a blending of wind and water, of waves 
and whispering leaves. Glava's voice seemed to be¬ 
long to the things of nature, coming from her deep 




The Voice on the Mountain 


34 


bosom as the storm rises from the heart of the 
woods. At that moment Glava appeared unaware of 
all else but her song and her sword. The steel she 
was polishing began to shine like silver beneath her 
touch. Then suddenly she lowered the blade and, 
with a sweet laugh quite unlike the deep notes of 
her song, she said: '‘When I thus point my blade to 
the ground it is to me as though a magic light were 
slipping like water through my fingers.'' 

"Why dost thou so love that shining steel?" asked 
Gorromo, watching her face. 

"I like its quality," said Glava, "its possibilities, 
and the sound of its voice when it rings upon stone." 

"But the sound of its voice when it drinks human 
blood—thou wouldst surely not love its voice then?" 

Glava laughed and held up the shining weapon 
toward the ceiling. "I love it as a woman loves the 
things she loves," was the answer—"because of the 
beauty of their colour, or because of the hopes she 
attaches to them, or because of the destinies toward 
which they may lead her through unknown glories 
into endless lands of dreams!" 

"Where do thy thoughts lead thee, Glava?" 

Again Glava laughed. Silver-clear was the sound. 
And, laying the sword down upon the hearth, she 
drew up a low stool beside the man's couch and, 
closing her fingers over his hands, she laid her head 
close to his face. "My thoughts are like butterflies 
that Spring awakens and that take their flight 
through many lands. I think that some are blue 




35 


The Voice on the 'Mountain 

and dance over nothing but flowers, flitting hither 
and thither till they are caught up into light. Others 
are soft-winged, shadow-tinted, fluttering myste¬ 
riously through dark woods into shady glens. 
Others are quite white and float like tiny sails over 
endless seas into unknown lands. Others are small 
and anxious, hovering over spots where the dead lie 
sleeping 'neath heavy stones. And some are as 
golden as children's visions; and those fly straight 
up into the skies." 

"Are there none that, like night-moths, fly to and 
fro seeking something they do not find?" 

"No," said Glava, "but there are those that return 
ever again here to their home"—and, so saying, the 
woman laid her lips softly upon Gorromo’s heart. 

Pressing her head against him with one of his 
hands, the man murmured (and there were tears in 
his voice): "Oh! may it ever be thy home! may 
thy thoughts never seek another world, thy feet lead 
thee to other places!" 

"However long my wanderings may be, however 
wild my rides, however wildly inviting the world, 
however glorious the sun and invigorating the 
storms, instinctively my feet lead me back to thy 
couch." 

The man sighed, and Glava, raising her head, 
looked into the flames that flared and hissed and 
crackled as though eager to relate many things. 
Crossing her hands over her knees she leaned 
forward, staring into the glare. "Hast thou ever 




The Voice on the Mountain 


36 


thought,” she said in a dreamy voice, '"of how tre¬ 
mendous and destructive are the passions of the 
elements? See those flames, how eagerly they rush 
up the chimney, how greedily they consume the logs; 
they are hurrying, hurrying toward they know not 
what; and yet, when the wood beneath them is de¬ 
voured, their life is also a thing of the past; they 
die with the wood they are destroying—^their beauty, 
their force, their victory falls to ashes, or floats away 
in smoke. And the floods of Spring! they tear down 
trees and hurl stones from enormous heights, they 
froth and bubble and leap and scream, only to 
end in sluggish waters carrying refuse toward all- 
engulfing seas. The winds have many voices, they 
storm and rage and cry, spending themselves in use¬ 
less fury; and no one understanding what their rav¬ 
ing is about, till they die away after having broken 
some branches, up-rooted some trees, uncovered the 
hovel of some shivering wretch. Was not their 
strength all given in vain?” 

'‘Art thou sad, Glava?” asked Gorromo tenderly. 

"Oh! no, I am not sad: I am only thinking. And 
when I think, I see many things—so many that they 
dance before my brain in a never-ending round. 
And each thought seems to open another door into 
passages with many turnings—” 

"Then we come back to thy butterflies, Glava—^to 
thy butterflies that one day may wing away from 
home.” 

Glava turned her face toward him. "Gorromo,” 




31 


The Voice on the Mountain 


she said, '‘it is thy thoughts that lead thee ever and 
again the one same way. They seem to lead thee 
to a spot where an immense dread or an immense 
pain lies hidden. Speak, Gorromo. What is it? 
speak!'' 

The man did not answer; he only closed his eyes 
as though wishing to conceal some secret from the 
girl at his side. But Glava laid her lips on his 
hand. 

"What is it, Gorromo? I feel that that same sor- 
sow is ever again bubbling up from thy heart as a 
spring bubbles from beneath the sand, or as blood 
bursts anew from a half-healed wound." 

"Glava"—all the man's soul was in the single word 
—"Glava! Glava! when a man holds a precious 
treasure, a treasure he considers of priceless worth, 
to be found but once upon earth—each day on awak¬ 
ening and each night on closing his eyes, that man 
wonders if the morrow will still permit him to call it 
his own. Each hour he trembles for it, each passing 
season he thanks God for having left it between his 
hands. And thou knowest, Glava—I can hardly be 
called a man; I am a wreck—a fallen tree that once 
stood upright—like other trees!" 

"A tree that fell because of me," said Glava in her 
deep-toned voice. 

But Gorromo made no reply. 

"That fell because of me," repeated Glava. "I 
was the storm that broke thy life. And it was night. 
The snow lay over the ground, but no moon was 




The Voice on the Mountain 


38 


shining then. ... No moon. . . . The wind was 
howling over the rocks, tearing like mad hordes 
through the forest that bent beneath its wrath. 
And I was riding—riding like a spirit of night 
let loose—riding swiftly, caring little whither I 
flew—'' 

“And I,'' said Gorromo, “galloped after thee, fol¬ 
lowing thy spear that shone in the dark.'' 

“And I laughed!" continued Glava. “I laughed 
because for many days I had already led thee thus 
from place to place. I felt invincible, I felt as 
though I were part of the wild world through which 
I rushed—I wanted to measure my strength with 
thine, to prove that 1 was the stronger, that in vain 
thy hands were extended to catch me, that in vain 
thy voice tried to soften my heart. 1 did not believe 
that I loved thee; my only instinct was to flee, know¬ 
ing that thy desire would pursue me, were it to the 
end of the earth." 

“Our stallions were equal in strength," said 
Gorromo. 

“But thine was unaccustomed to the dark," mur¬ 
mured Glava. 

“Therefore it died," said Gorromo, and there was 
a sound of Fate in his voice. 

Therefore it died," repeated Glava, and a heavy 
silence fell between them like a sword. The girl's 
fingers had closed over the sufferer's hand, and their 
four eyes were staring into the flames. 

“They brought thee back here," said Glava at 




39 


The Voice on the Mountain 


length—'‘back here to my dwelling. And at first I 
thought thou wert dead. Then the love I had de¬ 
nied burst like a flame from my heart; I cried upon 
God to leave thee to me, not to tear thee away—and 
God had mercy, he answered my prayer, he left 
thee.'^ 

“Broken!'' the word came from Gorromo's lips 
like a wail. “Broken 1 as a mast that was not strong 
enough to outlast the gale, as a tree that fell, up¬ 
rooted by the storm 1" 

“Ah! but my love was born in that hour," cried 
Glava, throwing herself down at his side; “was born 
in that hour, making me what now I am! Till then 
I was but a wild and tameless being, little more than 
a ruthless huntress rushing through forest and fen, 
going whither my desire led me, recognizing no 
master but my lawless will—living alone with the 
old servant who had reared me in this lonely place. 
But in that night a great light burst suddenly from 
my soul, changing the world within and without. 
And dost thou remember the first day when my hands 
were laid upon a sufferer and he departed healed 
from my house?" 

“Yes," said Gorromo. “Since then they all come 
to thee as though thou wert an angel of God! ‘The 
Voice on the Mountain,' they call thee, and thou art 
to them as a new Faith for which they have been 
waiting all their lives." 

“It is my love that gives me that curious power," 
whispered Glava; “my love for thee." 




The Voice on the Mountain 


40 


But very softly the man murmured; 'Terhaps 
it is only my love for thee/' 

‘‘What is the difference?" asked Glava, looking into 
his eyes. 

“The difference/' smiled the man sadly, “is that 
the one is as water flowing from an eternal source, 
whilst the other is but a miracle that one day can 
come to an end." 

“Why ?" asked Glava, and there was wonder in her 
voice. 

“Because I am a thing that life has done with," 
said Gorromo, “a fallen trunk that lies rotting on the 
ground; but thou art as a glorious fruit-tree whose 
branches each Spring covers anew with blossoms and 
leaves, that sun and wind delight in because of their 
beauty and because of their youth." 

“But I love thee!" cried Glava. “Thee alone do 
I love! Because of thee I feel this unknown power 
to heal, to bless, and to console. When I stand 
facing the multitude, it is to me as though thou 
stoodst behind me filling my soul with light, moving 

my tongue with words to which thy heart alone hath 
the key." 

“My heart overflows," said Gorromo, “for do I not 
lie here useless, a thing of the past, so that all I feel 
accumulates within my bosom till it would burst 
asunder unless I opened its sluices, letting the swollen 
waters out?" 

“They all run into my heart," said Glava, “anoint¬ 
ing my fingers, giving them the strange power of 




41 


The Voice on the 'Mountain 


healing others, teaching my tongue words it has 
never before known, opening my eyes to a light they 
had never seen.” 

'dt is a blessed mystery,” whispered Gorromo. 
“May God allow it to last!” 

“It has lasted four years,” was Glava's reply. 

“Yes, but each day brings the hour nearer when 
the charm may break.” 

“Why?” asked Glava, as a child might have asked. 

Because a thread much used grows thin 1” 

“Do not be so sorrowful!” cried Glava. “Are we 
not together? Does not the same roof shelter our 
heads, does not the same flame warm our bodies, does 
not the same love lie in our hearts?” 

“Is it the same?” And the man fell back amongst 
his cushions with a groan. “Is it the same? Is it the 
same?” 

Glava did not answer; but, rising from her seat, 
she bent over him and, putting her lips on his, she! 
kissed him. She kissed him as Spring kisses the 
earth, as the Sun kisses the slumbering seed, as Eter¬ 
nity kisses the tomb of the Dead. 

The bare chamber was full of the light of their love. 
But beneath the lips of the woman he worshipped it 
was to the sufferer as though his heart must break. 




V 


I feel that my limbs are made glorious 
by the touch of this world of life. 

'And my pride is from the life-throb of 
ages, dancing in my blood. 

Tagore, 

G LAVA was standing on a rock looking down 
upon a sea of clouds. The entire world 
appeared to have been transformed into a 
chaos of moving masses, grey-white, mysterious, im¬ 
penetrable. Precipitous were the sides of the crag 
she had climbed, and her eyes had the look of an 
eagle’s as they scanned the distance, whilst from all 
sides the mists rose in frothing billows, as though the 
world beneath her were but a gigantic cauldron send¬ 
ing up its steam to veil her in shifting vapours. 
Glava enjoyed her perilous position. No height 
made her giddy; she was at home in this wilderness 
of stone and clouds; she loved its desolation, its sol¬ 
itude; she had the sensation that she could spread 
great wings and fly into the seething ocean which hid 
the world from her sight. Was there a world be¬ 
neath? or had a monstrous fire consumed it? Was 
she perhaps the last mortal looking down upon the 
smoking remains of an immense disaster, a vast ruin 

42 


43 


The Voice on the Mountain 


of which the dying fumes rose towards her in fab¬ 
ulous pillars of smoke? 

These thoughts passed vaguely through the girl’s 
mind as she stood there all alone, like some mytholog¬ 
ical huntress who had lost her way in the wilderness. 
Short was her tunic, reaching to her knees. Wound 
round her slim legs were leathern thongs. Strong 
sandals were on her feet. The spotted leopard-skin 
was slung about her shoulders. A fur cap was 
pressed down upon her forehead, beneath which her 
long hair floated out, a dark mass amidst snowy 
clouds. In her hand she held a spear; its shining 
point pierced the mist like a tiny light. 

'The snows are melting in the valleys beneath,” 
spoke Glava aloud to herself. It was her wont to 
hold conversation with herself, with rock and tree, 
storm and wind, sky and earth. "Yes, the snow is 
melting, and a breath from the plains came, wafted 
through space even unto my nest on the crags. The 
first call it was. But many will follow, for now 
comes the season when I can find no rest and when I 
feel I must wander like a roving deer over every 
path.” 

She raised her spear above her head, swinging it 
about as though she could thus disperse the mists. 
"Glorious indeed is this seething mass of white, but it 
only floats there so as to render more intense my 
desire to pierce it—my eyes feel like two arrows that 
could penetrate any obstacle, and my arms are full of 
untried strength. Ah, Gorromo! couldst thou but 




The Voice on the Mountain 


44 


stand here beside me on this perilous height, thy all- 
seeing eyes would open out unto me views which I in 
my ignorance cannot divine. 

"'Gorromo! Gorromo! why must thou lie there 
bound to thy bed, smothering a long cry of suffering 
in thy heart—an eternal yearning for thy shattered 
strength making of thy days a torture and of thy 
nights a dread? I give thee all that I can, for I love 
thee; I feel the anguish that comes over thee when¬ 
ever I move from the house. Yet there are times 
when I must wander, for my limbs are unbroken and 
uncrushed my strength. I belong to the winds, to the 
sun and to the storms; I belong to the earth and to 
the sky that spreads above; I am a child of nature 
and amongst the things of nature must I move, 
must I love. Ah! if only it had not been be¬ 
cause of me that thy life had been broken 1 
If only I could have had thee one day for myself such 
as thou must have been once 1 But because of me— 
because of me!—thou liest there for ever crippled; 
the winds of spring cannot rouse thee, nor the heat of 
summer, nor the Autumn storms—no! nor even my 
love, my warm pulsing love! 

'‘But my love cannot tie me down to thy side— 
something within me cries for the wilds, something 
untamed that needs space and freedom, that at times 
must be let loose like the wandering winds, or like 
the leaping torrents that the melting snows have 
swelled!” 

In wild ecstasy her voice rose above the clouds. 




45 


The Voice on the Mountain 


echoing round the rocks, which seemed to answer her 
in chorus; then suddenly she laughed and, spring¬ 
ing lightly from crag to crag, began climbing down 
from her height. With the unerring instinct of a 
mountain chamois she frayed herself a way through 
mist and fog. She had no need to see where she was 
going; her foot took possession of the rocks; she never 
lost her balance, nor did she stumble over any stone. 
Her movements might be likened unto the flow of 
running water, unto the passage of a cloud over the 
heavens, unto a wave leaping with the tide; the wind 
seemed to be chasing her, tearing at her hair and the 
fur that floated from her shoulders. 

Glava reached the narrow path that led to the val¬ 
ley beneath. Little of it could be seen, because the 
mists that covered it were rolling their vapours upon 
it like a phantom flock of sheep. But Glava was out 
of breath; so she sat down upon a granite block, hold¬ 
ing her spear in her hand. Like a Queen she sat 
there looking down upon her lands that were 
invaded by clouds. Her bosom was heaving, her eyes 
were bright, a strange smile of exultation was on her 
lips, for Glava loved to wander thus amidst the el¬ 
ements that recognized her as part of themselves. 

Again she began to talk aloud. The words canue 
like a song from her lips. The clouds appeared to be 
hovering close to her so as to hear her voice; they 
lay over her head, they crept round her feet, they 
stole near her heart, slipping through her fingers 
like thin whisps of smoke. Glava's whole figure 




The Voice on the Mountain 


46 


seemed to be steaming; it was as though the vapours 
were rising out of the ardour of her blood. 

'‘Oh! clouds!'' spoke Glava, “ye pretend to be 
invincible, ye do as though no wind could blow you 
away, dense ye are as fleecy wool before the spinning; 
but real strength is not yours. Spring has but to 
breathe upon you and ye are a thing of the past. 
But I am in no hurry. I love the curtain with which 
ye mask many wonders; each year anew they are my 
soul's delight, and each season brings its gift." 

Then, softening her voice, Glava began to talk to 
the man who could not follow her; to the man whom 
she had left in the dwelling above. “Be not anx¬ 
ious, O Gorromo, my love, Glava will return to thy 
heart; as she sits here enveloped by mists she feels 
thy pulses beating in hers, she feels the call of thy 
longing, she feels as it were thy breath on her hand, 
she sees thy great and sorrowful eyes, she hears the 
deep words that come from thy tongue. Gorromo, 
dear love, I will not linger over-long; my steps shall 
lead me back to thy side. But, Gorromo, remember, 
before I was thine I belonged to this great world that 
has no boundaries. Now my world is thy love, my 
wisdom is the beauty I drink from thy soul! For¬ 
give me if sometimes I wander from thy couch; be 
not aggrieved, be not sorrowful; for, Gorromo my 
love, I shall always come back to thy heart. But 
Gorromo, thou knowest not how strong are my limbs, 
how throbbing the flow of my blood; thou dreamest 
not how tremendous is the impulse that drives me 




47 


The Voice on the Mountain 


abroad; thou hast never heard, save once, the 
strength of my voice—and that once, O Gorromo, it 
brought thee too near to the Shadow of Death. 

''Gorromo! Gorromo, too full is this vast world of 
voices, and too full of ardour the calling seasons; it 
is to me sometimes as though I must answer them, 
raising my voice above the storm, the wind, and the 
clouds.'' And, springing to her feet, Glava gave 
forth a strange and uncanny call that rang round the 
mountains, dying away in the distance like thunder a 
great way off. Weird indeed was this voice on the 
mountain—almost unearthly, a sound belonging to 
the spirit-world. Then again Glava laughed a laugh 
that seemed to bubble up from the depth of her be¬ 
ing like waters bursting irresistibly from the heart 
of a rock. 

Suddenly out of the silence another voice that was 
not the mountain-echo answered hers—a deep voice 
that came from the clouds beneath her. Like a 
startled deer, Glava stood listening, her hand to her 
ear, her lips half open, her eyes a-kindle with su- 
pressed excitement; and almost unconsciously she 
once more sent forth the call that her voice alone 
could utter. Again the voice from below answered; 
like a great cry of yearning it came, piercing the 
clouds that enveloped her, stealing through the mists 
like a message from the world beneath. 

Glava stood listening. Somehow this voice did 
not astonish her. Too well did it rhyme with the 
wild mood she was in. She hardly even wondered to 




ti 


The Voice on the Mountain 48 

whom it might belong. It was but the response 
of the cry she had sent out from the fulness of her 
soul. Little did it matter who was the climber 
mounting toward her. Seating herself quietly upon 
her granite throne, Glava waited—waited like a 
sovereign who knows that a messenger is nearing. 

A sudden sunray pierced the clouds, spreading a 
golden shine over the mists till they shimmered like 
a sea of light, wondrous to behold. Glava watched 
it, drinking with her eyes the marvel that was 
spreading beneath her. Glava could sit extraor¬ 
dinarily still. Her splendid limbs had a way of 
falling into complete repose, so that she seemed to 
form one with the rocks, like a statue carved in stone. 

And it came to pass that the clouds parted sud¬ 
denly, and that a man stood before Glava—a man all 
clad in white. Rising from her seat, Glava stared at 

him, and he stared back at Glava, neither speaking 
a word. 

Then the clouds closed behind the stranger, and 
the light departed as suddenly as it had come. Man 

and woman stood facing earth other, encircled by 
mists. 




VI 


/ am the end to which the whole world 
strives. Therefore are ye girdled with 
wild desire and shod with sorrow. 


'Alfred hJoyes. 


W 


HO art Thou?’' asked Glava in her deep- 
toned voice. 


^ ^ ''A wanderer,” was the answer, ''who, 

having heard the name of Glava, has come toward 
her because of a great need stirring in his heart.” 

"I know not the garb thou wearest,” said Glava. 
"Never have I seen man thus clad, though pilgrims 
from all countries have come to my dwelling, seeking 
my help. 

" I am a monk,” said the stranger, "and have no 
right to be here.” 

"Why didst thou come, then?” enquired Glava. 
"The way is long, and snow still lies on my moun¬ 
tain top; it is not the season when pilgrims search 
out my abode.” 

"There is no special season for sorrow!” said the 
monk. "And art thou not the new hope that has 
risen like a wondrous dawn in souls that are weary? 
Art thou not the Voice on the Mountain that calls 
to the disheartened toiling in the valleys beneath?” 


49 


The Voice on the Mountain 


50 


'‘What is thy labour?’' asked Glava. 

"The searching for God!” 

"And thou hast not found Him?” 

"No,” said the monk. 

"Thinkest thou perchance that I can help thee 
to find Him?” asked Glava, her eyes searching his 
face. 

"All ways have I tried,” said the monk, "and none 
led me to light. Then I heard speak of Glava. The 
name was as wonderful music to my ears; so I 
came.” 

"A long way it is,” repeated Glava. "And how 
didst thou escape from thy convent walls?” 

"I am sent on a pilgrimage to some holy shrine, for 
the abbot guessed that other spirits were in conflict 
with the Spirit of God in my soul. But my feet took 
another direction, leading me here, up on to the 
mountain in search of the voice.” 

What belief hast thou that I can help thee?” 
asked the woman. 

"The belief of the drowning one who clings to a 
last only hope.” 

Glava was silent for a moment; then she asked: 
"Who spoke to thee of Glava?” 

"Who spoke!” cried the man. "Who spoke? Wist 
ye not that Glava is a name that has the sound of 
Spring after long winter-storms? Glava is a name 
that rings down from the heights like Easter bells 
announcing the Resurrection! The poor carry the 
name of Glava like a star in their hearts, the warrior 





51 


The Voice on the ‘Mountain 


adores it as he adores the banner he follows to war, 
the dying murmur it when the Great Shadow touches 
them with its wing, little children pronounce it as 
they would pronounce the name of a great wonder 
that has come to pass, and those that are groping in 
obscurity yearn towards it as the prisoner yearns for 
light. The name of Glava is on every tongue, the 
name of Glava has spread like a heavenly blessing 
over the dark lives of men.'' 

Glava gazed at the stranger, a curious flame in her 
eyes. How haggard was the face that was lifted to 
hers—young, yet ravaged by passion, and with a wild 
look in the eyes. Ascetic were his features, pale, dis¬ 
traught by emotion; his hands were trembling, and 
his weary feet left traces of blood on the snow. 
Glava stared at him as she would have stared at a 
page which she could not decipher. Pity stirred 
within her—pity mingled with a strange feeling of 
dread. She was accustomed to eyes full of sorrow— 
for were not Gorromo's dark pupils two deep wells 
of pain ?—but different was the gaze of this stranger. 
It seemed to pierce her like fiery daggers, and the ex¬ 
pression of his lips was at the same time hungry and 
humble, like a hunted creature's seeking refuge in a 
desolate spot. 

The hem of his habit was stained and dirty from 
the long road he had travelled, but the body that the 
coarse woollen cloth concealed seemed full of ill- 
restrained ardour, as though some feverish impulse 
were continually kept in check. 




The Voice on the Mountain 


52 


‘‘How can I help thee/' said Glava slowly, “unless 
I know what thy suffering is and what need has sent 
thee forth?" 

“It is the need of thee!" cried the man. “The need 
of thee!" 

Spell-bound, Glava stared at him. His hot eyes 
devoured her, his lips were parched as though by some 
tremendous thirst, his hands seemed to want to grasp 
at a fleeing shape. Glava stepped back, standing 
spear in hand like the guardian of some forbidden 
portal, whilst the grey mists rose like smoke above 
her head. 

“It is thee I need, Glava—the Voice on the Moun¬ 
tain—the woman whose marvellous name has filled 
all souls with hope. Thine eyes do I need, thy hands, 
thy touch, the deep understanding of thy heart." 

“I still do not comprehend how I can help thee," 
repeated Glava, her voic-e full of compassion, a 
strange emotion ringing through her words, for never 
had such mendicant climbed the mountain path. 
“Rest here beside me and speak to me of thy trouble, 
for never do I close mine ear to a voice that is in pain; 
tell me what it was that drove thee to these heights, 
tell me thy name, thy desire, speak to me of thy hope. 
And perhaps Glava will be able to help thee, to lift 
the weight from thy heart!" Signing to him to be 
seated, the maiden resumed her place on the rock, 
there to await the confession of the stranger who had 
escaped his monastery walls. 

But with a sudden movement the monk was on his 




53 


The Voice on the Mountain 


knees at her feet, clasping her robe with his hands. 
"'Glava!’' he cried,—'‘all my life has been one long 
cry toward something I could not find! I have 
searched for it on the faces of the monks that rule my 
life, I have searched for it in the stars of heaven, 
hunted for it amongst the wise words in sainted 
books; I have searched for it in heavenly harmonies, 
in the hymns that mounted like incense to the throne 
of God; and lately I have been searching for it upon 
painted effigies of the saints. 

"Is it peace that I am seeking? is it peace? I think 
it is not peace. That which I am seeking has another 
name.'' 

The man's voice rose towards Glava like a loud 
wail of distress. "Too young was I imprisoned be¬ 
hind convent .walls. My mother was a wandering 
gypsy who died when the bloom of spring was just 
fading from her face; and my father, who was a great 
warrior, had loved her with a terrible love. Bur¬ 
dened with an infant that reminded him too sorely 
of the one he had lost, not knowing what to do with 
this living proof of a love that had passed like a 
dream, he took it to a holy convent and there he 
offered up his only child to the service of God—left 
it there as a babe, little imagining that his wild blood, 
mingled with that of the mother, would awake one 
day to become the curse of the son he had abandoned 
long ago. . . . 

"I will not describe my long sufferings; I will not 
speak of my doubts and of my struggles, or of the 




The Voice on the Mountain 


54 


self-inflicted chastisement which I made my body 
undergo, or of the martyrdom to which my masters 
subjected me, or of my nights of torture and the 
days of raving inexplicable desire, filled with haunted 
dread. I will only confess to thee that with each 
passing year more destructive became the furnace 
burning within me, so that 1 felt at times that I must 
lift my clenched fist and shake it in the face of the 
smiling Virgin who looked down on me in eternal di¬ 
vine indifference, there in the chapel where I tried to 
pray. I knew that one day I should stand up before 
them all and insult her with hard words if she did 
not open her sweet lips to speak of Love 1 

'‘Love! Ah, yes, that is the word I was searching 
for—the word that lies like a hot iron in my heart! 
Was not the sky all full of it, and the leaves of the 
trees, the songs of the birds, the flowers that sprang 
from the earth, the wind sweeping through the 
branches, and even the voices of those white-robed 
prisoners beside me, singing in eternal adoration be¬ 
fore the altar of God? Was it not the message of 
Love that floated into my cell through the open case¬ 
ment on nights when the moon hung pale in the 
skies? Was there not love in the notes of the flute 
on which the shepherd was piping in the valley be¬ 
yond? Was not the breath of the lily we plucked 
for the Virgin’s altar Love mounting from the bowels 
of the earth?—Love which God had given to men 
to console them for being on earth! Was it not be¬ 
cause of Love that I existed, out of Love that I had 




55 


The Voice on the 'Mountain 


been born? and was it not because of a Love that 
my father could not overcome that he had abandoned 
me to the mercy of others, sacrificed me when I was 
but a babe? and was it not Love that burned in my 
heart, tearing it away from the service to which it 
had been destined, from the prayers it was to pray?” 

With a dry sob the man hid his face in Glava's lap. 
‘'And because of this white habit that I wear, because 
my father had loved too well, I was to be ever ex¬ 
cluded from that great wonder that ruled the world 
—because of this uniform which I shared with others, 
the great unexplained mystery was to pass over my 
life like a strange and fearful blessing in which I 
should never have part. Gaetano, my mother had 
called me, but within my prison they had given me 
another name, and that name seemed to brand me a 
creature apart, shut away from the world of the liv¬ 
ing. Therefore will I not even tell thee what sound 
it had! 

"I clung to prayer! I clung to music, I clung to 
the horrible fatigue with which flagellation had over¬ 
whelmed me, I clung to some impossible promise of 
recompense in a future better world. I clung to the 
Word of God and to the shadowy hopes which the 
holy brothers held out to me. But all seemed empty, 
a sounding vessel with no water from which I could 
drink—and no water with which I could quench the 
flames of Love that seemed to rise like a curse out of 
all that I touched, calling to me to flee my surround¬ 
ings, to break the chains that were destroying me, to 




The Voice on the Mountain 


56 


seek other help, other voices—another faith! The 
old abbot became anxious. He must have seen the 
light of folly burning in my eyes. So for the first 
time he opened the doors of my prison and, pointing 
toward the horizon, he told me before what shrine I 
must go and do penance. 

'Tor the first time in my life I was outside the 
convent-walls. Before me lay the long road, the 
road I had never trodden, the road which might lead 
anywhere—the road which others knew, but which 
ran along before me like a secret still to be discovered. 
The rains of Spring were washing the last snows of 
winter away; from beneath the melting slush, grass 
was sprouting, green as the hope that lies dormant in 
every heart. Above me the sky was blue, half veiled 
by clouds floating over it like wild swans winging 
toward their nests. The air filled my lungs, and the 
road ran on and on before me; my feet were covered 
with its mud. My thoughts were fixed upon the 
holy shrine whence hope was to come to me—hope 
and deliverance and peace. 

But on the way another name, never before heard, 
floated suddenly toward me from the lips of passers- 
by: the name of Glava—Glava! . . . Like a mystic 
chant it followed my steps; it was a marvellous mes¬ 
sage mounting on all sides to greet the captive who 
had burst his bonds; an eternal verity it seemed, 
rising out of earth, falling from the skies, sounding 
out of the waters that rushed bubbling by. Glava! 
The name came to my heart as no name had ever 




57 


The Voice ‘on the Mountain 


done. It was like a song of angels, like the cry of 
small children going toward joy, like a wondrous 
hymn of praise rising from every breast. 

''I asked about thee: a river of praise was the an¬ 
swer—a river of many voices repeating the one same 
name—a river full of tears and sighs and love. 
So I turned my footsteps away from the road that 
I was to have trodden, toward the Voice on the 
Mountain. And now—I am here on my knees at 
thy feet. 

‘‘Glava, what message hast thou for the man who 
is desperate, for the man who, because of thee, is 
ready to break his vows, to deny his beliefs?’' 

'‘Were they beliefs?" asked Glava in a solemn 
voice. “But if it be the love of woman thou seekest, 
then must thou go to another place!" 

“Thou deniest me every comfort, every hope, every 
help!" cried the man. “O Voice on the Mountain, 
thou wouldst cast me back into deadly darkness with¬ 
out a ray of light." 

“I cast no one from me," said Glava softly “—no 
one. But rightly am I named the Voice on the 
Mountain. I am a voice, not a woman—and even 
my voice is but the echo of another voice, deeper and 
wiser than mine." 

“Thou wouldst deny thy humanity?" cried the 
monk. “Thy glorious body wouldst thou deny? thy 
perfect limbs, thine eyes of light, thy crimson lips 
and that night-coloured hair that falls like a mantle 
down over thy back? and the name of Glava, that 




The Voice on the Mountain 


58 


wondrous name that cuts through darkness like a 
sword of light?” 

'"I am the Voice on the Mountain,” said Glava, 
rising to her feet; “and those that come to me come 
to the healer, to the oracle, to the hand that comforts, 
to the ear that can listen, to the heart that under¬ 
stands—but they come not to a woman, for the 
woman does not exist!” 

The man rose also, facing Glava, who, tall and 
wonderful, stood before him, superb in her unshaken 
strength. 

“Thou art proud, O woman,” said the monk, “and 
thou hast no mercy, for thy heart knows no conflict, 
thine eyes know nothing of the passion of love—but 
have a care, O Glava; thy hour may come! and then 
the Voice on the Mountain will have quite another 
sound!” 

“Gaetano,” answered Glava gently, “thou knowest 
not what thou sayest. Glava loves: Up there on 
the mountain-top some one lies awaiting her return, 
and it is because of that love that Glava is holy, for 
it is the passion of that heart that has given her 
tongue its wisdom and her hands their power. I turn 
not from thee in anger, for dearly do I wish to help 
thee in thy plight. But no earthly love can I give 
thee. It is not Glava that will help thee to break 
thy vows, and I know not what other desire thou 
hast!” 

“Oh! give me something, something!” cried the 
man. *“My life has'been empty; I am but a prisoner 




59 


The Voice on the Mountain 


groping in the dark; no soft hand has ever touched 
my brow; I have been thirsty ever since I was a child. 
No mother has kissed me, no sister has been at my 
side, no woman's smile has rendered less arid my 
road. If I ask for all—for what thou canst not give 
—it is because I know not what it means! I cry for 
Love because its power seems to rule the earth. And 
because thou art marvellous, so all-knowing, so un¬ 
like others, I thought that some miracle would come 
to pass, and that with thy white hands thou wouldst 
lift the pain from my heart!" 

Glava felt an immense pity for the man. Vaguely 
she realized how tremendous was his longing, how 
great his despair. Her clear eyes which knew noth¬ 
ing of conflict scanned his haggard face; a maternal 
desire to console him made her lips tremble, her eyes 
fill with tears. 'There is too much longing in the 
world," said Glava softly, "too great desire toward 
miracles that seldom come to pass. Daily do I read 
an immense grief in two eyes that I love. They 
dumbly question me, and I know not what answer 
they are craving. And now thine eyes seem also full 
of the same desire. Yet I have but one heart and 
one body, but two eyes and two hands! 

"Kneel down here before me; let me press my lips 
to that brow that never has known a caress. Take 
this kiss with thee; let it be a blessing that will make 
less weary thy road. But ask not Glava to give thee 
what is not hers to give. And if a great unrest come 
again over thee, climb to the door of my dwelling. 




The Voice on the Mountain 


60 


Two wilt thou find there to greet thee—two instead of 
one. And if it be the Voice on the Mountain it is 
thy desire to hear, then come as a pilgrim, and Glava 
shall stand as is her wont, back to the sea, a helmet 
on her head and a sword in her hand. For only up 
there the Voice on the Mountain has its full power— 
up there near that other heart that awaits me, not 
here in this wilderness of clouds. . . 

The white-robed stranger fell down before the 
woman of whom he had come so far in search. And, 
raising the desperate young face in both hands, 
gently, like a mother, Glava pressed her warm red 
lips to his brow. "'Go in peace,” she murmured. 
'‘And when thou needest help, remember that yonder 
it can be given thee, yonder on the mountain-top.” 

The man rose and stood staring at her, a wild light 
in his eyes, pressing his hand to the spot which she 
had kissed. 

“It burns,” he said dreamily. “It burns, and yet 
it is as though for the first time I had drunk of an 
eternal source.” Then, rousing himself, he picked up 
his staff. “I shall come again, Glava,” he cried. 
“Verily I shall come again!” And like a restless 
spirit driven by some nameless fear he rushed from 
her, the clouds closing over him like shapeless mon¬ 
sters devouring a prey. 

Glava stood quite motionless. Her spear had 
fallen to the ground. An immense silence encom¬ 
passed her—a silence that seemed to descend from 
the skies, mingling with another silence that rose out 




61 


The Voice on the Mountain 


of the ground. Glava’s hands were folded. As one 
who sees something which she cannot understand, she 
stared at the crimson traces which the monk’s feet 
had marked on the snow. 




VII 

IVe raise our hands to the void for things 
heyoTid hope. 

Tagore. 


<< A T last.” 

J\ It was Gorromo’s voice that cried out the 

^ ^ words. Like a sob they came from his lips, 
for to him it seemed that he had waited a life-time 
for the sound of her step. Glava stood in the door¬ 
way spear in hand. A gust of wind entered with her 
into the house. 

'Thou art like a flower that has bloomed in the 
early morn,” cried the man. 'Thou art all covered 
with dew!” 

"The mists have wept over me,” laughed Glava; 
"they have tried to blind me, to hide my road and 
make me lose my path; like roving spirits they have 
endeavoured to lead me astray T' With her bound¬ 
ing step she came over the floor and, bending toward 
her lover, kissed him on the brow. 

In truth the mist shone in tiny diamonds all over 
her; her hair was covered with them, and the air she 
brought with her was the inebriating breath of the 
wilds. 

"When thou bendest thus over me,” whispered the 

62 


63 


The Voice on the Mountain 


man, '‘it is as though God’s vast creation had gath¬ 
ered round thee, making thee a creature apart!” 

"Did the time seem long to thee without me?” en¬ 
quired Glava tenderly, smoothing the hair away from 
his brow. "Thou art pale, my Gorromo: has the 
pain been upon thee very sore?” 

"The minutes are weighted when thou art far,” 
answered Gorromo. "Each one seems to turn into 
an hour invented for my special despair.” 

"Hast thou been in pain, Gorromo?” asked Glava 
again. 

"Yes,” said Gorromo simply. "I am always in 
pain when thou art not here!” 

Glava sighed. "Gorromo,” she said, "I believe 
that with thee the torture of the brain could deaden 
any physical pain.” 

"My body is a thing of the past,” said Gorromo 
sadly. "My legs are two blocks of ice; they might 
even be two tomb-stones marking the place where 
they lie dead. Any pain I may feel flows to my 
heart. It is here in my breast that I suffer, nor 
do I know if my suffering is of the body or of the 
mind. 

"But let us not speak of things that sadden us, 
Glava, for has not all the joy of the world entered 
with thee into the house? Where hast thou been, 
O my Glava? Thou hast brought back within the 
folds of thy clothes the smell of infinite spaces, the 
good smell of earth.” 

"Yes,” said Glava, "although the snow is still deep 




The Voice on the Mountain 


64 


in many places, one feels that the breath of Spring is 
passing over the world. Down in the valleys the 
green grass is already sprouting along the sides of 
the roads.'' 

‘'Are thine eyes so piercing that thou canst see 
right down into the valleys beneath?" 

“No," said Glava, “but I met a wanderer who had 
come from far." 

“A wanderer here in thy world of stone?" 

“Yes, a wanderer," repeated Glava; “a wanderer 
whose eyes were haunted and whose words were 
strange; a man such as never before have I seen." 

“An old man?" asked Gorromo. 

“No, young he was," answered Glava; “young, and 
his eyes had a hungry light." 

“Where was he going?"'asked Gorromo. 

“He was going nowhere: he was searching for the 
Voice on the Mountain," said Glava; “he was search¬ 
ing for me." 

“For thee!" An expression of anxiety came over 
Gorromo's face. “For thee! and how did he find 
thee?" 

“He said that many voices had indicated the road 
to him." 

“The road to thee—^yes, many know it," said Gor¬ 
romo slowly. “But generally they come at another 
season." 

“His feet were bleeding," said Glava. “Never be¬ 
fore had they walked upon open roads." 

“What dost thou mean, Glava. Thy voice is 




65 


The Voice on the 'Mountain 


strange, a shadow seems to have fallen over thee. 
Wert thou perchance afraid?” 

Glava did not laugh at this question as Gorromo 
had expected, but going up to the fire she put her foot 
on the hearth, extending her hands toward the flame. 

was .not afraid,” she answered quietly. “But the 
strange look in his eyes has remained like a weight 
on my soul.” 

“Who was he?” The sound of anxiety deepened 
in Gorromo's voice. 

“A monk,” said Glava. “A monk all clad in 
white.” 

“A monk?” 

“Yes; and it was the first time he had quitted his 
monastery—the first time since his father had left 
him there as a babe.” 

“He told thee his story?” 

“Yes and no,” said Glava. “He spoke of the 
great unrest that had sent him forth.” 

“And what was that unrest?” 

“He was not quite sure what it was. Af first he 
thought that perchance it might be the desire for 
peace, for the peace he had not found in prayer; but 
then he realised that it was only the desire—” 

“The desire of what?” asked Gorromo breathlessly. 

“The desire of Love.” 

“And it was therefore he came to thee? to thee!” 
cried Gorromo. 

“He was going elsewhere—^to some holy shrine—' 
but the sound of my name met him on the way, and 




The Voice on the Mountain 


66 


so he turned his steps toward the heights. And he 
found me amongst the clouds. He came upon me 
very suddenly, right out of a ray of light.'' 

“Was he beautiful?" asked Gorromo, his hands 
gripping the rug that covered his couch. 

“I hardly remember his features," said Glava. “I 
only remember the immense distress in his eyes." 

“Were they in greater distress than mine?" The 
words seemed wrung from Gorromo's lips. 

Glava suddenly turned round and looked at him. 
Then with a quick movement she was on her knees 
at his side. “What is it, Gorromo? Art thou in 
pain? Speak, Gorromo. What ails thee?" 

“Nothing!" said Gorromo, “nothing. I was only 
afraid—so afraid—" 

“Afraid of what?" asked Glava, laying her hand 
on his brow. 

“Of shadows, of life, of the unknown, of shapes 
that rise suddenly out of space—I am afraid of to¬ 
morrow—I am afraid of the Spring—of any strange 
step that may come into our lives. . . ." 

“Gorromo, why is there so much pain in the eyes 
of men? My heart is so wide—generally I feel so 
happy, as though I could lift worlds and touch the 
clouds with my hands. But when I look downward, 
then I see eyes about me filled with fear, filled with 
longing, with desires which I do not. understand. 
When they come in crowds it is different; then I can 
bear them, because it is like a wide wave rolling to¬ 
ward my heart, and pity rises in me like an isolated 




61 


The Voice on the Mountain 


thing that I can give them. But this man’s eyes 
seemed to ask for something I could not give—some¬ 
thing that belonged to my inner self. And yet I 
longed to help him. It was as though through his 
look hundreds were crying to me for food, for rest, 
for peace—for love.” 

Gorromo was feverishly pressing Glava’s hand be¬ 
tween both his own. His eyes also had the look of 
which she spoke. She gazed into them as though 
trying to unravel some mystery. 

'Tes,” continued Glava, ‘'men seem striving to¬ 
ward impossible dreams, always straining after some¬ 
thing that passes them by, something they cannot 
grasp—something that perchance belongs not to 
earth. They do not seem to enjoy the sunshine, the 
flowers, the sound of the wind passing amongst leaves, 
the marvellous blue of the sky and the good smell of 
the earth, the glorious fresh air that fills their lungs. 
They must needs turn to their neighbours, looking 
down instead of up, till they themselves become sad 
because of all that they see!” 

Gorromo sighed. “Thou art a child of nature, 
Glava,” he said. “No polluted air has ever touched 
they beauty; no strife for life, no desire toward the 
possessions of others has marked any lines on thy 
face—no, not even any conflict of soul.” 

“Thou speakest truly,” said Glava; “ever have I 
lived alone.” 

“Thou has grown up straight toward the sun as a 
flower grows, opening its petals only to heavenly 




The Voice on the Mountain 


68 


light; the dust of high roads has never soiled 
the hem of thy garment. Glava, thou hast been 
happy.” 

'‘Yes, I have been happy,” said Glava thought¬ 
fully. “Yet, for several years already, a strange 
unrest has sent me forth, seeking for I know not 
what.” 

“That is why the legend has spread abroad that 
thou art at times driven from thy dwelling by some 
nameless woe.” 

“It is riot woe,” said Glava. “It is more like a 
great longing that must end in joy.” 

“Things end generally in pain, Glava! in pain, not 
in joy. 

“Why should it be so, O Gorromo? Is not 
light stronger than shade and joy greater than sor¬ 
row?” 

“The end of all earthly things is pain, Glava! 
Flowers fade as the bloom fades from the cheeks of 
youth; hopes fall to pieces; and man cannot cling to 
a happiness that he leaves behind him. The greatest 
joy is oft but a passing light in the midst of much 
darkness. Maybe the real light lies beyond the 
gates of this life, but our human eyes are too weak to 
perceive it!” 

“I believe in joy,” said Glava simply, “for this 
world is too beautiful, and too true the heart in which 
I trust.” And tenderly the girl laid her lips upon 
the helpless man’s hand. 

“And does a doubt never cross thy mind?” asked 




69 


The Voice on the Mountain 


Gorromo. “Does no fear or apprehension ever 
darken thy soul ?” 

“No/’ said Glava. Then she added in a lower 
voice: “But the eyes of that man who came through 
the clouds have made me wonder—” 

“Tell me more about him,” said Gorromo. “I 
want to know what he asked of thee and what thy 
answer was.” 

“He knew not himself what he wanted, and yet he 
felt as though I could give it to him—as though I 
could still his longing and quench his thirst. The 
folds of my gown did he wet with his tears. They 
were burning hot like cinders falling from a furnace. 
He said that never had the shadow of a woman 
crossed his road, that never had a woman’s voice, 
even that of a mother or of a sister, gladdened his 
ear; that he had been as a wretched prisoner groping 
for light.” 

“And thou—what didst thou answer him? Glava, 
what answer didst thou give?” 

“I answered him that 1 was the Voice on the Moun¬ 
tain, and that up here in this dwelling there were two 
who could help him instead of one; I told him that I 
was only a helper, an oracle, a voice that was but 
the echo of another voice that 1 loved.” 

“Thou didst tell him that, Glava—only that? And 
thou gavest him nothing, Glava?” 

“No, nothing! nothing but a kiss on his brow.” 

“And thou callest that nothing!” cried the man on 
the couch. 




The Voice on the Mountain 


70 


''Ask not of a woman/' said Glava, "to see sorrow 
and not to stretch out a hand." 

Gorromo was silent. Only the sound of the crack¬ 
ling fire filled the room. 

"Will he come again?" whispered Gorromo 
hoarsely, after a while. 

"It may be that he will come again," was Glava's 
reply. Then, bending over the man, whose voice 
seemed heavy with unshed tears: "Gorromo," she 
said, "of what art thou afraid? I give thee my life, 

my love, my faith, my trust: what more can I give 
thee?" 

"Thou canst not give me the morrow," cried the 
man with a dry sob. "Thou canst not promise me 
the flower that one day may bloom for thee alone!" 

Glava's eyes filled suddenly with a great anxiety 
that made them large and luminous like those of a 
child. "Art thou worse, Gorromo?" she cried. "Is 
thy pain harder to bear? Oh! tell me. Do not 
hide anything from me. Tell me, art thou worse?" 

"It was not of the death of the body that I was 
thinking,' said Gorromo sadly. "That death were 
peace, that death were but the opening of an unknown 
door unto unknown shores. No, Glava, it was of 
another death that I was thinking^-of one that is 
slower and more cruel—the death of all that means 
light to my soul!” 

“1 do not understand,” said Glava. 

No, thou canst not be expected to understand! 
And I have no right to darken thy life and to cast a 




77 


The Voice on the Mountain 


shadow over thy days. My maimed body cannot en¬ 
tirely comprehend thy gladness, as thy unshaken 
strength cannot quite seize the sorrow that lies like a 
veil between me and all I see. Forgive me, my 
Glava! Leave thy hand in mine. Then I shall over¬ 
come the world even from my couch. With the help 
of thy love I shall lift my soul above bodily suifer- 
ing; through thine eyes shall I look at the glories of 
the sun and enjoy the awakening ecstasies of newborn 
seasons; and if thy mysterious monk knock at our 
door, we shall let him in and we shall wash his bleed¬ 
ing feet and lay the balm or our love upon the wounds 
of his heart. 

'Torget my words, Glava, for I would not see thee 
with a shade of sorrow in thine eyes. Let sorrow be 
mine, but all the joy of the earth would I lay round 
thy forehead like a crown of light!'’ 

Glava stood beside him with a smile on her lips. 
''Be not afraid of the morrow, Gorromo. See, the 
snows are melting, and soon the voices of spring will 
spread like heavenly harmonies over the earth." 

"It is of the voices of spring that I am afraid," 
sighed Gorromo. "But the thought shall be put from 
me. Now wilt thou not call Volona to bring us our 
evening repast? See, the dusk is already creeping 
toward us, filling our chamber with shade. Go, my 
Glava—and, because I love thee, go and deck thy 
wondrous body with the golden robe I gave thee 
once. My eyes would feast upon thy beauty; I 
want to keep thy picture like a shining light in my 




The Voice on the Mountain 


72 


eyes. This day is still mine, and I shall hold it— 
hold it with my two useless hands!'' 

And Glava did as she was bidden, leaving Gorromo 
alone in the vast chamber; alone with the crackling 
fire on the hearth. Lurid lights passed over.his face, 
and difficult it had been to say if it were tears shin¬ 
ing in his eyes or only the reflection of the light. 
Shadows played over the wall, larger or smaller ac¬ 
cording to the size of the flames. But Gorromo lay 
quite still, staring into space, with the name of Glava 
on his lips—that name which had turned the monk 
from his road, which little children were calling, to¬ 
ward which the hopeless were flocking, in which the 
desolate believed; that name which like blessing was 
passing in every breeze over the awakening earth. 

yes, the name of Glava was on Gorromo's lips. 




VIII 


How far does my life reach and where 
does night begin? 

Rainer Maria Rilke. 

I N Glava's small chamber many tapers had been 
lighted, as though for a feast. Glava stood in 
the middle of the floor whilst old Volona fussed 
around her, decking her mistress' beauty with the 
sumptuous robe which Gorromo had desired her to 
wear. Like long lines of light the precious tissues 
flowed down her body, making her appear even taller 
than usual, giving her the strange semblance of a holy 
figure robed for a procession amidst fanatic crowds. 
Glava stood quite still, a smile on her lips, whilst the 
old servant fastened here a clasp and there a string, 
bending to the ground so as to spread out the shining 
folds, rising again to smooth with her fingers the 
glorious fabric which her rough hands seemed to 
touch with delight. 

''Sure and no wonder it is," she murmured, "that 
the man adores thee more than his life. Thou re- 
semblest no other woman upon earth; I am thinking 
alone thou standest, a thing apart. A pity it is that 
thou canst not see thyself, for indeed thou art a sight 
for the saints." 

"Why should I not be beautiful?" laughed Glava, 

73 


The Voice on the Mountain 


74 


lifting her arms above her head. '‘Are not the flow¬ 
ers beautiful, and the sky and the sea and the rocks 
and the trees? Beauty is in all things that grow, 
even in the humblest weed that takes root amongst 
stones. And am 1 not also a growth of the wilds? 
are not these mountains my home? Have 1 ever 
been afraid of storm, sun, or snow? Have I not 
grown tall and strong like the fir-tree that springs out 
of the rock?’' 

“And it will not be every woman that has beauty,” 
muttered Volona, shaking her head. 

“But my mother was beautiful, was she not, Vo¬ 
lona?” asked Glava, taking the old woman’s hand. 

“Ay, *ay, it was beautiful she was,” said the old 
servant beneath her breath. 

“1 wish I had known her,” sighed Glava. 

“Ay, ay, it was beautiful she was,” repeated the 
woman. “But not as beautiful as thou art. I am 
thinking the world had kissed her, and with it the old 
sorrow of Eve.” 

“And my father?” asked Glava. 

“Man does not always pause to pluck the seed he 
has sown,” was the enigmatic answer. 

“Terribly close are thy lips, Volona, when thou 
wilt not speak!” 

“A word once spoken flies abroad like an insect 
with many wings,” said Volona. “And better it is, 
I am thinking, never to let it be born than that it 
should fly whither it should not go at all, at all.” 

“Is.then'the secret of .my birth a thing of shame?” 




75 


The Voice on the Mountain 


“Nay, nay,'' grumbled the woman. “But weary 
me not with useless questions, my child; it is old I 
am, and one thing at a time is enough for me. Let 
me deck thy beauty worthily, so as to give joy to the 
sad man who awaits thee below. Let good alone— 
rejoice over thy strength, thy health, and thy beauty; 
rejoice over the love that fills this house. Clouds 
will be floating over the sky at times, but thine eyes, 
thank God, can generally perceive the sun that will 
be hiding behind them. 

“Dear me! dear me, and a grand thing it will be, 
this golden stuff that my good Lord Gorromo has 
given to his Lady; I am knowing that. He had it 
brought from a far-off land so as to enhance the 
beauty of the mountain maiden." 

“Unlike Glava, is it not,7 laughed the girl, “this 
trailing of golden gowns over the simple floors? The 
wild huntress of yore knew naught of such finery, nor 
would I care to be often thus clad. More at ease 
am I in my simple attire, spear in hand. But what 
would I not do for Gorromo—for Gorromo, who is so 
sad—?" 

Furtively the old servant watched the girl's face as 
she spoke. “And it is not only with his heart that 
he will be loving thee," she said, “but also with his 
soul and with his life." 

“Yes," said Glava dreamily, “it is as though some 
fibre of his being had taken root within me, so that 
if I move away from him I seem to be tearing some¬ 
thing up. Is it always thus that men love, Volona?" 




The Voice on the Mountain 


76 


‘'Dear me, no!'’ cried the old woman, clasping her 
hands. “Mostly they love too little; but meseems 
this man will be iQving too much!” 

“Too much?T.4 

“And will he not be wearying thee sometimes with 
his over-great longing?” 

“I love him; therefore he cannot weary me. I love 
him so that no sacrifice can be too great!” 

“Ah! but it is of sacrifice that thou wilt be speak¬ 
ing,” said Volona. “When love is complete, nothing 
is sacrifice, I am thinking. It is just one long giv¬ 
ing and receiving that it is, neither knowing who gives 
nor who receives; it is all blended together into a 
holy light.” 

Glava was silent. She stood staring at her own 
broken reflection in the small panes of glass. “The 
world is very large,” she said at last, “and this house 
is but small. Before Gorromo came into my life all 
my joy lay beyond; like a creature of the wilds did 
I roam from place to place. But with Gorromo’s 
coming it was the small house that became large 
like a cathedral, because of the love that lies 
therein; and the world outside it was that had 
shrunk.” 

“Rightly wilt thou be saying ‘that lies therein*! 
Otherwise it were if he could stand at thy side.** 

“Hast thou forgotten, Volona,” said Glava almost 
sternly, “that it is because of me that Gorromo lies 
there crippled, his life broken in two?** 

“And sure thou didst need to see him broken in 




77 


The Voice on the 'Mountain 


two, before thou couldst love him!” scolded the old 
woman as she would have scolded a child. 

'‘What did I know of life then, Volona?” 

"And what is it thou are knowing of it now?” 

"Volona, for shame! I do not understand thee.” 

"Tut, tut!” said the old woman, '‘thou lookest at 
life through the glass Gorromo will be putting before 
thine eyes; and, because of thy great pity for his mis¬ 
fortune, it is to love him eternally thou wilt be vow¬ 
ing, although he be but two eyes that stare at thee 
out of a world of pain. Tut, tut! what wilt thou be 
knowing of love?” 

"Volona, of what art thou speaking?” 

"I am speaking of what I know,” said Volona, "It 
is under the spell of that sad man’s eyes that thou 
art, and because of the great need he has of thee he 
will be filling thy soul with a mystical perfection 
which is not really thine!” 

"Volona!” cried Glava, half in laughter half in 
anger, "what dost thou presume to say?” 

"And it is what I know that I be saying,” repeated 
Volona. "Didst thou ever have power of healing be¬ 
fore my lord Gorromo lay in the house? Was thy 
tongue ever so wise, or thy hands so gentle, or thy 
words so powerful, before he loved thee? Or am I 
alone remembering the wild huntress of yore?” 

Glava was silent a while; she had clasped her hands 
together, and her eyes had a far-away look. "How 
dark it was that night,” she murmured, "how dark! 
And I was so full of joy! I had already met the 




The Voice on the Mountain 


78 


handsome stranger the day before, and always had he 
pursued me on his beautiful steed—but my Focco 
could outrun it, because he is accustomed to our 

mountain paths.” 

Glava paused a while; then, reassuming her tale, 
she said almost in a whisper. "'But never shall I 
forget the sound when they fell—fell like a tree that 
the storm hurls into space. ... A miracle it was 
that Gorromo was not killed. But his beautiful stal¬ 
lion lay beneath him with broken back, its eyes still 
wide open, but—the light out of them was gone. . . . 
Oh! how I screamed there, all alone amongst those 
rocks. Never had 1 raised my powerful voice to 
such a pitch !• I could not lift the great man, in spite 
of the strength of which I was so proud; so 1 called 
and called as never had 1 called and never shall 1 
call again. Meseems that since that night my voice 
has another sound.” 

Again Glava was silent a while; then she continued, 
still in a low voice: “What hours those were, alone 
in the dark, not knowing if the man were alive or 
dead! His head lay on my knees, and he was quite 
still—quite still—and morning crept slowly, oh! so 
slowly, over the earth. When light came at last my 
eyes seemed to open to another life—a changed life. 
Pain had suddenly entered my world; then it was that 
I saw the wide-open lightless eyes of the beautiful 
horse—” 

“Ay, ay!” grumbled the old servant, “and it is too 
often already thou wilt be describing me the scene; 




19 


The Voice on the Mountain 


today meseems thou wast not sure then if most thou 
wast regretting the man or the horse!’' 

'‘Volona!” cried Glava in an indignant voice. 

"'Sure I am knowing what I say,” continued the 
woman. '‘Man meant very little to thee in those 
days, whilst Focco was a creature apart, thy friend 
and companion on every road. Well, well, but 
it all changed; it was changed from that day when 
my Lord Gorromo was brought up here to our 
house.” 

"I wanted to be wedded to him then and there,” 
said Glava, looking straight before her. 

"Yes, but, thank God, it will be too noble that 
this soul was, to agree to such a crime. He would 
not be accepting such a sacrifice. And it is right he 
was. For can one be binding a living bit of nature, 
made out of fire and storm, sun and joy blended to¬ 
gether into woman’s shape—be binding it to a—?” 

"Be still, Volona! I will not hear thee say it! It 
cuts me like a knife! Thou knowest all that Gor¬ 
romo has given me: am I not another being? does 
not a strange new power flow through my blood? 
Has not his love made of me a woman, whilst till that 
day I but a half-tamed creature without either heart 
or brain? And since then his love has been un¬ 
changeable. No call from his former life could lure 
him back to the plains. One messenger after an¬ 
other did he send away without listening to their 
prayers. For four years has he been here with me on 
this mountain top!” 




The Voice on the Mountain 


80 


''Ay, ay, and it is pretty enough that it sounds, no 
doubt, and my Lord Gorromo will be loving thee too 
well,'' said the harsh old voice. "But it is not my 
opinion that will be changing. A woman he has 
made of thee—more's the pity, I am thinking, be¬ 
cause I declare, for one, that all thy new-found per¬ 
fection will be but the reflection of his love. The 
wild huntress of yore will be lying beneath it with all 
her former fierceness, and it is ready to awake it is, 
when the hour will strike!" 

"Thou has no love for Gorromo!" said Glava in a 
pained voice. 

"What has an old hag to do with love at all, at 
all?" grumbled Volona. "Sure, my eyes, though 
dimmed, will be seeing clearer than thine. It is a 
saint my Lord Gorromo is; his words will be more 
beautiful than those inscribed in the Holy Book. 
But he is a saint who will be lying on his back— 
and not only dost thou stand upright, but a long fu¬ 
ture it is that lies before thee, and thou hast wild¬ 
running blood in thy veins. But enough talk. Sit 
thee down on yonder stool: I want to wind thy 
plaits round thy brow, so as to make thee like unto 
a queen with a crown on her head." Old Volona 
laughed, but there was not much mirth in the sound. 

"I am happy," said Glava, as though in protest 
against some unspoken thought. "I tell thee I am 
happy and that I need nothing else!" 

"Life will not always be waiting till we ask," was 
the strange reply that she got. Then it was Glava 




81 


The Voice on the Mountain 


who laughed; and such a ring of joy was in her voice 
that the sad man in the room beyond heard it and 
pressed his hands to his heart. 

'‘Give me my sword!’' cried Glava, "for without 
my sword I am only half myself!” And again she 
laughed. 

Then the door between the two rooms was opened, 
and Glava stood before Gorromo, a shining shimmer¬ 
ing miracle of gold, with a naked blade in her hand. 

"Glava, I love thee!” was all he found to say; and 
his arms were held out to her with the gesture of one 
meeting his Fate. 

Glava went over the floor toward him, the folds of 
her marvellous attire following her like a light. But 
on the threshold stood Volona shaking her head. 
Then, turning, she left them, closing the door very 
softly so as not to remind the man and the woman 
that the world was waiting outside. 




IX 


Even the stars could I gather within me, 
so over-large feels my heart. 

Rainer Maria Rilke. 

G LAVA was singing.' Her wondrous voice filled 
the large chamber with waves of sound. The 
fire had fallen to ashes; a smouldering glow 

r 

alone marked the hearth as with a streak of flaming 
blood. The moonlight streamed in through the 
broad uncurtained window, painting a pool of silver 
on the shadowy floor. Glava stood in the square of 
mystical radiance; her golden robe had become white 
beneath the bleaching rays; round her brow the 
heavy plaits laid a sombre shadow. Her two hands 
were clasped on the hilt of her beloved sword, which 
shone along her body like a line of frost. 

Near the dying embers sat Volona spinning. As 
fine as a cobweb was the thread that slipped through 
her fingers, and her wheel whizzed softly like the 
buzzing of many bees. But Gorromo lay quite still 
on his couch, watching the love of his heart. His 
eyes seemed two holes marring the paleness of his 
face. From time to time Volona would lift her head, 
casting guarded glances from the man to the girl, 
but no hasty movement ever snapped her thread. 
Strange were Glava's songs. A wild throb passed 

82 


83 


The Voice on the Mountain 


through them like the pulsing of blood in fevered 
veins, like the sobbing of tired winds that cannot 
rise to full storm, like the beating of captive hands 
against unrelenting doors, like the dull swell of dead 
seas over hidden graves. A sound of Fate rang 
through Glava's every song, and curious it was that 
a maiden whose whole nature was but one cry of 
joy should instinctively choose words so sad and 
gloomy: 

I have heard the sea-wind sighing 
Where the dune grasses grow; 

The sighing of the dying, 

Where the salt-tides flow. 

For where the salt-tides flow 
The sullen dead are lifting 
Tired arms, and to and fro 
Are idly drifting. 

So through the grey dune-grasses 
Not the wind only cries. 

But the dim sea-wrought Shadow 
Breathes drowned sighs. 

Suddenly her voice broke off, and in quite another 
key she began again: 

1 hear the sea-song of the blood in my heart, 

I hear the sea-song of the blood in my ears: 
And I am far apart 
And lost in years. 




The Voice on the Mountain 


84 


Is then this wildering sea-song a part 
Of the song of mystery of the years— 

Or only the echo of the tired heart 
And of tears? 

Then, quite unexpected, Glava laughed that rather 
wild laugh that always made Gorromo’s heart stand 
still. She lifted her sword in both hands. The 
beautiful voice took up once more: 

Out of the wild hills I am hearing a voice, Oho! oho! 
And I am thinking it is a voice of a bleeding sword: 
Whose is that sword? I know it well; it is the sword 
of the Slayer, oho! oho! 

Him that is called Death; and the song that he sings 
I know; 

Oho! oho! oho! 

Out of the cold greyness of the sea I am hearing, oho! oho! 
I am hearing a wave-muffled voice, as of one who 
drowns in the depths; oho! oho! 

Whose is that voice? I know it well: it is the voice of 
the Shadow— 

Him that is called Death; and the song that he sings 
I know. 

Oho! oho! oho! 

Upright stood the maiden, all white in the moon- 
sick radiance. Above her head the sword flashed 
about like a phantom light. Only she and her 
weapon were luminous in the dim dark chamber, like 
a beloved vision come from a land of ancient lore; 




85 


The Voice on the Mountain 


like a bodiless spirit that might dissolve into mist if 
human voice were suddenly to sound. Out of the 
dark Gorromo and Volona watched her, holding their 
breath. 

Then again her voice changed, becoming soft; and 

like the sigh of far-off tides she sang: 

✓ 

In the sunken city of Murias 
A golden image dwells: 

The sea-song of trampling waves 
Is as muffled bells 
Where he dwells 
In the city of Murias. 

In the sunken city of Murias 
Long, oh! so long ago, 

Our souls were wed when the world was young. 

Are we old now, that we know 
This silent woe 
In the city of Murias? 

Even softer became Glava's voice when she sang 
this last stanza: 

In the sunken city of Murias 
A graven Image dwells: 

The sound of our little sobbing prayer 
Is as muffled bells 
Where he dwells 
In the city of Murias. 


''I love that song,'' said Glava when she had fin- 




The Voice on the Mountain 


86 


ished. 'd see the graven image sitting there beneath 
the ever-restless tides that pass over it, unaware of 
what they are covering; sometimes they are green, 
sometimes blue, sometimes black and stormy like the 
heart of hate; but the image sits smiling in its eternal 
grave. 

'‘What sort of image is it?'' asked Gorromo's voice. 

"A strange image," said Glava, “with a smile on its 
face. It smiles because it knows things that the seas 
have never learnt." 

“What things?" 

“Things that went down with the city when it sunk 
beneath the waters—old songs and old loves and old 
hates. All unwittingly the voice of the sea has be¬ 
come an echo of those voices that lie submerged in 
fathomless depths. Sometimes I imagine that the 
city of Murias lies here drowned beneath my 
rocks." 

“Whence hast thou that thought?" queried Gor- 
romo. 

“It is fo me as though some old echo from other 
ages had whispered the song into my heart. For 
there are four cities that lie beneath the sea: Gorias, 
that is in the East; Finias, that is in the South; 
Murias, that is in the West; and Falias, that is in 
the North; and no eye can see them more. Once 
they were glorious, and lovers sauntered hand in 
hand down their streets; but now they are forgotten, 
and no one knows where they lie—no, not even I." 

“Why are all thy songs so sad?" asked Gorromo. 




The Voice on the Mountain 


87 


'They are so unlike the joy that lives in each drop 
of thy blood.” 

"She was cradled to the sound of those songs, I am 
thinking,” said Volona from where she sat. Her 
harsh old voice seemed to come from very far, from 
somewhere right out of the past. "The sea, the wind, 
and the throb of a tired heart, I am thinking, were 
the sounds she will have heard as a babe. There is 
a song I am knowing that once her mother sang as 
she cradled her close to her heart; a song that has not 
been sung for many a year. Forgive an old woman 
if she will be lifting her weary voice; but the moon¬ 
light, maybe, or this dead-still hour of night, will be 
putting the words into my mouth. Listen, ye two 
young ones, for verily it will be a voice from out of 
the grave coming back to your hearts.” And the 
gaunt old woman began to chant, an echo of lost 
beauty ringing through her once fine voice: 

Oh! bonnie birdeen, 

Sweet bird of my heart, 

Tell me, my dear one. 

How shall we part? 

He calls me, he cries 
Who father is to thee; 

Oh! birdeen, his eyes 
In those blue eyes I see. 

Thou art wrought of our love, 

Of our joy that was slain— 




The Voice on the Mountain 


88 


My birdeen, my dove, 

My passion, my pain. 

The old woman's voice swelled suddenly with a cu¬ 
rious force through the room; it was like a sombre 
wave dashing its waters in a death-cry against a 
rock. 

With a feeling akin to awe the other two listened. 
Moving out of the moonlight, Glava entered the 
shade where the strange being sat invisible, and, 
going up to her, she put her arms about her. ‘Thou 
hast kept an echo of my mother s voice," she said al¬ 
most unconsciously. 

“And it may be that some echoes never die," was 
all the old woman said. 

“I do not remember those words," said Glava. 

“Perchance they will only have remained in my 
heart," murmured Volona. 

“ ‘Oh! bonnie birdeen! sweet bird of my heart!' 
how sweet it sounds!" said Glava, taking up the song 
in her glorious young voice: 

Thou art wrought of our love. 

Of our joy that was slain— 

My birdeen, my dove. 

My passion, my pain. 

I 

The whole room vibrated again with the notes that 
rose like a cry of undying love through the dark. 

“Come here," cried Gorromo suddenly. “I must 
touch thee, feel thy hand! or my heart will stand still. 




89 


The Voice on the Mountain 


The shadow is too dense: I cannot see thee. I am 
afraid.” 

Glava ran toward him. "The moon-spell has got 
into our blood,” she said; ""we all of us feel as though 
ghosts were hovering around us. Here I am, and, 
as thou feelest, verily no ghost!” And, bending 
down, the beautiful woman kissed Gorromo on the 
lips. 

A strange sound came from the dark corner where 
Volona sat. Was it a groan or was it only the sound 
of the wind? Who can tell? Neither Glava nor 
Gorromo heard it; at that moment their souls were 
too near. 

""Sure thou canst also be singing songs such as other 
maidens sing,” came the old voice from the chimney 
corner; ""songs of love.” 

Glava raised her head. ""Then put fresh logs on 
the fire,” she said. ""Let its gleaming glow chase the 
pale moon away; she has brought the spirit-world too 
near.” 

""Lay thy sword down,” said Volona. ""Other 
maidens would not be singing love-songs with swords 
in their hands.” 

Glava laughed her glorious laugh, in which all the 
joy of the earth seemed to have flowed together. 
""Build up the fire,” she cried; ""let it flame and flare. 
But leave me my sword. I shall sing the song thou 
desirest, but I am not as other maidens. I am 
Glava!—the woman that Gorromo loves.” And, 
moving into the middle of the chamber, she stood 




The Voice on the Mountain 


90 


there tall and splendid in her golden gown, whilst 
fresh flames bursting from the fire enhanced the 
strangeness of her beauty. Then she threw back her 
head, and a song rose from her throat, filling 
the room, rolling round the rafters like a call of 
spring: 

I told you that sorrow would fade, love, 

And you would forget half your pain; 

That the sweet bird of song would waken ere long 
And sing in our bosom again; 

That hope would creep out of the shadows 
And back to its nest in your heart, 

And gladness would come and find its old home 
And that sorrow at length would depart. 

I told you that grief seldom killed, love. 

Though the heart might seem dead for a while. 

But the world is so bright and so full of warm light 
That 'twould waken at length in its smile. . . . 

Glava broke off. “Some say that this is the end 
of the song,” she said suddenly, “and that Love can¬ 
not last. Listen!” And in a different key she took 
up the words: 

The river that rolls between us 
Can never be crossed, I know, ‘ 

For the waters are deep, and the shores are steep, 

And the maelstrom whirls below! 

“And what is it thou art knowing about how a 
song should end?” cried Volona harshly. “Who 





91 


The Voice on the Mountain 


» ■ ■ I — .. ■■■■■■ I ■ I I 

could have been putting such thoughts into thy soul? 

I am not knowing what songs can reach thee up here 
but those that old Volona sang to thee in our soli¬ 
tude!” 

‘Thou wast not always old, Volona,” laughed 
Glava lightly, “Verily thou wast not born with the 
frost on thy head.” 

The old woman lifted her strange sunken eyes, and 
the look she gave Glava seemed to come from other 
days. “Thy words will be dancing lightly over me,” 
said the servant, “but I am knowing that the truth 
of thy saying is nothing to thee. To thy mind, in 
spite of thy words, the snow on my head will be a 
weight that always was there; neither will youth be 
caring what will have been the storms that blanched 
our hair and froze the blood in our veins!” 

A sudden and curious revolt seemed to rise from 
the heart of the old woman as she looked at the 
splendid being before her. Some old sorrow was 
bubbling to the surface from beneath what had 
seemed to be waters stilled forever. An unknown 
sensation of awe crept over Glava, an almost grue¬ 
some realization of having lived beside depths never 
fathomed. She stood motionless in the middle of the 
chamber, her head turned toward the corner where 
her old friend sat spinning; and the feeling that she 
was looking at a stranger stole shuddering into her 

heart. 

Volona answered her gaze without any fear; her 
eyes seemed to burn their sockets. When the feet 




The Voice on the Mountain 


92 


of youth/' continued the old woman as one who 
awakes from an over-long sleep, “tread over cinders, 
they are never remembering that a fire has burnt 
there once, or that the greyness over which they will 
be passing is the grave of a leaping flame. To them 
it is only dust, as lifeless as the furrows that will be 
marked upon faded faces at which they hardly look. 
Thou wilt be awakening at dawn, O Glava, like a 
rose-bud opening to the rays of the sun, and when 
thou steppest out into their radiance thou will be 
thinking for sure that their glory was invented for 
thee alone. Yet we too have our spring-time, I am 
thinking; we too a dawn to our day!" 

“Have I perchance been selfish?" asked Glava with 
the voice of a child. 

“Will the fruit-tree be selfish because in April its 
branches cover over and over with blossoms, or will 
it be responsible for the cold ashes that will be star¬ 
ing at its beauty from off the ground? Nay, nay, 
child, thus is the law of nature, and thus must it be— 
each heart will have its day, longer or shorter accord¬ 
ing to the decree of Fate. 

“But rightly art thou saying, sure the moonlight 
has stolen into our blood. Then those old songs, 
they will be coming out of the past like stealthy fin¬ 
gers knocking at the door of my heart. But I am 
knowing that in each woman the eternal mother lies 
dormant, and in hours like these the snow of old 
age for sure will not be hindering nature from awak¬ 
ening with a cry, to demand the things that have 




93 


The Voice on the Mountain 


L 

been eternally denied her. Now let me be rising 
from my corner to bring you the cakes I made for 
you both a short while ago.'' And the strange old 
being left her seat by the fire-side and silently went 
away. 

Glava went over to Gorromo and slipped her fin¬ 
gers into his. “Always again I feel," she cried, “that 
this old world is too full of voices—voices calling out 
of the future and voices calling out of the past. 
The first can hardly be resisted, and the last cannot 
be denied! Gorromo, Gorromo! is it our souls that 
torment us? for surely man was made to be happy 
and glad!" Opening wide her arms, Glava made a 
gesture as though she would clasp the world to her 
heart. “I feel so young, so strong, so loving! My 
bosom heaves like great waves that want to rise 
higher and higher till they could reach the skies; my 
hands feel so eager that meseems I could tear the 
stars from the heavens; and my heart is so large that 
I am sure it could become a home for every longing, 
a haven for every hope. My eyes are so powerful 
that they feel they could reach any distance, pierce 
any darkness, see through any curtain, absorbing 
every beauty, taking possession of each joy! Gor- 
romo, Gorromo, speak to me! tell me something, or I 
feel that my heart will burst!" 

But Gorromo could say nothing. He only stared 
at her, his soul in his eyes. 

The moon-rays from which she had escaped had 
stolen after her over the floor and were creeping like 




The Voice on the Mountain 


94 


caressing fingers over her body, hiding amongst the 
folds of her garment, sliding up her arms, laying 
themselves above her bosom, kissing with pale lips 
the waves of her hair, filling her pupils with phan¬ 
tasmal light. Once more she stood revealed to her 
lover, a vision risen from other worlds. 

His tongue felt heavy with the many words of en¬ 
dearment he longed to cry out, his soul was oppressed 
by the desire to make her realise the incommensur¬ 
able strength of his love, his hands trembled with the 
yearning to touch her, to hold her, to chain her to his 
life. But nothing did he say. He knew that no 
words could tell her what he really felt. Dumb was 
the man before her beauty, as the worshipper is 
dumb before the face of his God. And it was to 
Gorromo, as he contemplated with ecstasy her silver- 
flooded figure, as though through the large closed 
windows many other faces were staring at her—pale 
faces, hungry faces with covetous eyes—and as 
though greedy hands were extended toward her so as 
to tear her away from his side. And amongst the 
rest he thought he could see the ghostly face of a 
white-robed monk whose feet had left bleeding marks 
on the ground. A nameless anguish rose like a great 
flood to the lover’s heart, a flood that he felt must 
certainly one day break in upon it, extinguishing the 
flame by which he lived. 

But Glava’s face was turned toward him; and in 
her eyes shone the faith of a child. 




X 


W darkened casement in a darker room 
Was all his home, whence weary and 
bowed and white 

He watched across the slowly gathering 
gloom 

The slowly westering light. 


Alfred Noyes. 


HE voices of spring were calling, calling. The 



stone house on the mountain was full of their 


^ clamour. They came from the valleys beyond, 
they came from the skies above, they mounted from 
the great blue sea that spread its enigmatic immensity 
beneath Glava's much-loved rocks. Like a far-off 
chorus singing songs of exultation, they echoed 
through the mountain maiden’s chamber, bringing 
her a message of hope and love. Like a whispered 
warning they penetrated through the curtain which 
old Volona had drawn over her window to shut out 
the day. 

But through Gorromo’s restless slumbers they 
throbbed like the beating of an enormous drum, fill¬ 
ing the world with a sound of advancing Fate; a 
sound so overpowering that, as he awakened suddenly 
from sleep, the name of Glava burst like a cry from 
his lips- Oh! but what was it that he heard? Was 


The Voice on the Mountain 


96 


it not the noise of galloping hoofs? Yes, this was 
reality, this was no dream: it was the sound of 
Focco's irons ringing on stone—the sound of Glava 
galloping away from the house—of Glava, whose 
wild-leaping blood was following the call of spring. 
And there lay the man who loved her, bound and 
fettered to his couch. He could not even rise so as to 
gaze after her as she stormed away without having 
left the blessing of her kiss on his brow. 

"'Glava,” he cried, "mighty indeed must have been 
thy unrest this morning, or thou wouldst not have 
gone from me thus, without awaiting my greeting 
yonder in our room. For well thou knowest, Glava, 
what anguish brings a day that begins without thee— 
a long, long day, wearily waiting thy return.” He 
clasped his hands over his burning eyes. A prayer 
that was more like a groan wrung itself from the 
lonely man's breast. 

But Glava did not hear if. Something wilder than 
love and stronger than pity was racing in her blood— 
something that filled her young veins with the irre¬ 
sistible impulse of flight. She wanted to belong to 
no one, to feel no fetters, no law, no boundaries; she 
wanted to be one with the breezes that blew, one with 
the sun that shone, to be but a part of the sap that 
was rising in every plant; to mingle the overbubbling 
joy of her soul with the extraordinary ecstasy that 
was spreading like magic over the awakening earth. 

Glava sat her stallion like a wild Amazon, needing 
neither stirrup nor saddle. A leopard's skin only 




91 


The Voice on the 'Mountain 


was strapped on the grand creature’s back. Over 
rocky roads and perilous passes flew Glava, spear in 
hand; woman and horse seemed grown together, and 
it was as though the same exultation were leading 
them forward toward any adventure, away from any 
sadness, into the very heart of life. Equal was their 
strength, and neither rider nor steed admitted any 
hindrance, heeded any danger, felt any fear. Their 
advance might have been likened unto a sunlit storm 
whirling through space! Like flickering flames the 
stallion’s mane floated in the breeze; with the move¬ 
ment of a wind-driven wave its tail swept over the 
ground; wide open were its nostrils, and from its di¬ 
lated pupils sparks seemed flying as they flew from 
under its hoofs. The girl’s Fong tresses, which had 
escaped from beneath her fur cap, followed her 
closely like a dense dark cloud; her eyes were full of 
light; a wild laugh escaped her lips, mingling with 
the songs of the birds that flew after her as though 
endeavouring to overtake this vision of joy that was 
hurrying over the earth. The sky and the trees, the 
clouds and the sun, were in harmony with the girl’s 
singing heart. They greeted her as their own, they 
welcomed her advance, they called her, they whis¬ 
pered secrets into her ears, they promised to disclose 
wonders to her soul. Thus was Glava the wild hun¬ 
tress led by the voices of spring ever further away 
from the house on the mountain-top, till the naked 
branches of a still leafless beach-forest spread wide 
its arms to clasp her to its bosom, bidding her roam 




The Voice on the Mountain 


98 


through its shady mysteries till her longing should 
find rest. 

But up there all alone by his window lay Gorromo, 
watching how the sun gradually changed place; and 
Volona, coming to bring him his midday meal, no¬ 
ticed that between his fingers he was clasping a faded 
yellow flower that Glava had laid on his pillow before 
leaving the house. Volona looked at him pityingly 
and placed the steaming bowl on the table beside him. 
‘Tor sure she will be coming back,” she murmured. 
“Have no fear, she will be coming back!” 

“How will she come back?” groaned Gorromo. 
“How? how? Dost thou not hear the feet of Fate 
coming nearer and nearer, till one day they will pass 
my threshold and tread on my heart?” 

Volona shrugged her shoulders, standing with her 
hands on her hips. Like her master, she was gazing 
out of the window, and her eyes had a far-away look. 

“Ah! me!” she said slowly, “if only poor human 
creatures could but love without needing to possess, 
indeed life would be easier and pain would be less. 
The one loves too long, I am thinking, and the other 
too short; the one will dig down too deeply, whilst 
the other will be dancing lightly over the earth. Be¬ 
cause of this great misfit the best hearts cannot be 
living together in peace. It is too much giving and 
taking there is, too much hoping and desiring. They 
will not be meaning to hurt each other—few will be 
really bad, they mean to be faithful, they hope to be 
true—but this I am thinking: a heart that holds an- 





99 


The Voice on the Mountain 


other, however loving it may be, can become a cage if 
the other heart feel its wings growing too large to re¬ 
main within. No duty, no pity, no tenderness counts 
at all, at all. The heart will end by spreading its 
wings to be flying elsewhere. . . 

Volona paused, and Gorromo asked, turning sud¬ 
denly toward her: ''Volona, what has thy life been V 

"But sure I am thinking it has been a flash of light 
in a long trail of shade!" came the answer, in so defi¬ 
nite a voice that it sounded like a closing door. 

But Gorromo longed to keep the door open, so once 
more he asked: "And was that one flash of light 
sufficient for all thy life?" 

"One must be taking what one gets," said Volona 
quietly. "Because a light has gone out for sure will 
not be meaning that it never was. There are those 
that take and those that give. I was of those that 
gave. I am content. Glava is my pride: may she be 
reaping all the happiness that passed me by. Better 
it is to be looking life squarely in the face, not to be 
crying for the stars and not to be wanting to gather 
lilies where thorns only can grow." 

"Perhaps thou hast never loved, Volona? Volona, 
hast thou ever loved?" 

For a moment Volona did not reply; then: "The 
almighty fire will not be counting the sparks that fly 
from its heart," she said. "Even refuse can be set 
ablaze, and its flame, I am thinking, can mount as 
high as any other flame. But who cares about the 
tide that will be ebbing from stricken hearts? I am 





The Voice on the Mountain 


100 


but a shadow that will be seeking oblivion. Age 
hath the face of night; age extinguisheth star and 
planet, moon and sun and all the fiery worlds. May 
its frosty hand be laid on my bones, may its chill 
enter my blood. I am asking now but for its dark¬ 
ness and silence. I will be bowing my head, for it is 
weary I am; in truth, it is weary. The flame has 
burnt out—unavailing were my words.'' 

Gorromo looked at her with a new interest, which 
for a while made him forget his own misery. '‘Nay, 
nay," he protested, “we need you of the frosted locks. 
Are ye not the rocks we cling to when we feel the dark 
waters mounting towards our souls? Speak! thy 
words will help me!" 

“My Lord Gorromo," said Volona gravely, “weari¬ 
ness will be in my loins; the crown of fulfilment 
never was placed on my brow; the sorrows of sorrows 
will be the only law of my being, the long slow pain 
my part. I look forward to naught but to the grave. 
Therefore am I thinking the things that I could teach 
thee were but little to thy taste at all, at all." 

“Speak on nevertheless," begged Gorromo, “for I 
too am weary—am weary—" 

“It is wondering I am how much talk there will be 
about love in the world," said Volona after having 
been silent a while. “Some say man loveth best, 
some will be saying it is woman; I tell thee the bal¬ 
ance is pretty equal, but seldom are two loves weighed 
by the same weight. Either the man it will be who 
gives, whilst the woman will be receiving like a queen 




101 


The Voice on the Mountain 


upon a throne, or it is the other way about that it is; 
and sure no one’s fault will it be at all, at all, if two 
flames can never burn alike. No doubt God’s great 
scales will not be weighing according to the need of 
poor human hearts. Therefore is too much given 
here and too little there; and to God it is all alike, for 
He sitteth too high, I am thinking, to be able to see 
into every hidden place. But here upon earth this 
discrepancy will be meaning tears and crushed hopes, 
broken lives and aching hearts. For again I am 
saying: Love is a creature of freedom. A bird will 
it be with wings, that flies whither it wills. No law 
will it be knowing, nor any call of duty; even the 
wrath of God will not be keeping it within bounds. 

‘'Better it were for sure to be seeing things as they 
are and not to be struggling so sorely. But man is 
made to struggle, to desire, to obtain, to possess—or 
the world would stand still, I am thinking. But 
when man has gone beyond all desire—then the grave 
it is that calls him, then he will be wishing for Rest— 
Oblivion—Peace—call it as ye may; I simply will be 
calling it Death. 

“But surely it is too much I am talking. What 
can an old woman like me be teaching such as thee? 
But this let me still be telling thee, for indeed it will 
be the truth: Not always frosted was my hair, nor 
were my eyes always dim; and the King when he will 
be passing the beggar standing in the dust, cannot 
know toward what dawn that beggar may be look¬ 
ing back.” 




The Voice on the Mountain 


102 


"'Yes, yes, much canst thou teach me, Volona,’' said 
Gorromo sadly. "'But what ye cannot give me is 
just the snow that lies like the hand of peace on thy 
head. My life should still stretch as a broad sun¬ 
shiny road before me. Because I am crippled it came 
to a sudden and violent end. But the roots of youth 
were not torn out of my heart when the storm passed 
over me. Flames still consume me; I cannot, I can¬ 
not, surrender what I love!’' 

Volona stood mute beside him. Too simple was 
her mind to find words with which to ease his woe; 
belonging to the class of those'who bow their heads, 
she knew not the language of revolt. ''And sure she 
will be coming back,” was all she said, ending with 
the very words wherewith she had begun. "But 
drink now of this beverage I have made thee, for 
surely man must live in spite of the pain in his heart.” 
And the gaunt old creature, bending over him, put 
the bowl to his lips. 

Gorromo looked at her; and, meeting her strange 
sunken eyes, it was to him as though he were wander¬ 
ing through endless shadows toward forgotten ash- 
strewn shores—shores that would give up none of 
their dead. 




XI 


Et ma jeunesse inas$ouvie 

Marche au grand soleil comme un rot. 

Henri Spiess. 

L ight and shade flickered through the branches 
of the forest. Hazy grey was its depth; the 
mighty trees were like an army of titans rest¬ 
ing before some tremendous strife. Underfoot a 
sumptuous carpet had been spread. No dead leaf 
was to be seen: spring had decked the ground with a 
myriad flowers that raised their small faces to the 
life-giving sun. 

Over this many-coloured marvel came Glava on her 
horse. The cathedral silence filled her wild heart 
with awe, so that, calming her steed, she rode slowly 
deeper and deeper into the heart of the wood. In 
enormous natural terraces the forest covered the 
mountainside. Almost even was the path which 
Glava was following; but beneath her an ocean of 
trees rolled downward into incalculable depths. Dis¬ 
turbed by the heavy hoof-tread innumerable birds 
rose from the bare branches, fluttering anxiously 
round their half-built nests, making the air resonant 
with their voices, breaking the silence with a busy 
sound of life. In clouds the steam rose from Focco's 

flanks. The great creature stepped lightly, as though 

103 


The Voice on the Mountain 


\ 


104 


loth to crush the small flowers clustering beneath its 
feet. 

Glava held her spear upright like a knight return¬ 
ing from some holy quest. She cared little whither 
she was going, nor was her brain weighted by anxious 
thoughts; Glava was simply part of the forest, and 
the joy of her heart was the same joy that was sweep¬ 
ing through nature. Her place seemed to be there; 
and soon the little birds ceased being frightened and 
greeted her with their songs as though she had been 
a guest bidden to take part in the universal feast of 
spring. 

But suddenly another sound disturbed the forest 
silence—a sound of trampling hoofs coming toward 
her from the opposite side; heavy hoofs that appeared 
to be tired, as though the rider had wandered far. 
Glava drew rein and, raising her hand to shade her 
eyes, stared before her, wondering who could have 
strayed so far from trodden paths. Like a shadow 
risen from nowhere a rider was advancing towards 
her on an ash-grey horse. Battered was the shield 
that he carried, broken the spear in his hand; but the 
look of his eyes was that of an emperor when he gazes 
toward a distant land. His head was uncovered; in 
matted disorder his red-brown hair clung damp to his 
brow; a bandage had been bound round his forehead 
—a bandage all spotted with blood. Limping was 
the gait of his charger, but the man sat upright upon 
it like a conqueror returning from war. Man and 
maid advanced one toward the other as though 




105 


The Voice on the Mountain 


neither were willing to yield place, each considering 
the other an intruder without right to be there. 

'"May I ask where thou art going?’' demanded the 
man, stopping his horse. 

''And thou—whence comest thou?” was Glava’s 
haughty retort. 

"Art thou perchance Queen of this forest?” 

"I am neither Queen nor subject,” answered the 
maiden. "I am Glava, and many know the sound of 
my voice.” 

"I have never heard it,” said the man. "But the 
sound of thy name has a wonderful spell, and verily 
thy voice is as silver bells calling the faithful to 
prayer. If my head were not already uncovered, I 
would uncover it now. But my helmet was smashed 
in battle—had its metal been less true, I should not 
be here this early morning to look upon thy face.” 

"Who art thou, and whence comest thou?” asked 
Glava, looking him full in the eyes. "Drops of blood 
are dripping from under thy bandage: if thou wilt 
dismount, I will bind up thy wound anew.” 

"It is but a scratch,” said the knight. "I come 
from far, and my charger is footsore. I am seeking 
for water to give him a drink.” 

"I can lead thee to crystal-clear sources,” said 
Glava, "for this is my world. This forest is my home 
—every path knows me, each tree is my friend.” 

"Lead on, and I will follow thee,” cried the stranger. 

Glava laughed. "The legend will have it,” she 
cried, "that my spear lights in the dark; some say 




The Voice on the Mountain 


106 


that I ride a flame-coloured stallion, and that on 
nights of storm its hoofs can be heard galloping over 
the earth/' 

''And what is the truth about thee?” said the man, 
coming nearer. "Thy steed is not flame-coloured, 
and methinks it were thine eyes, not the spear, that 
would light in the dark.” 

"I can see through any obscurity,” laughed Glava. 
"I am not afraid of the night; the stars are my com¬ 
panions as well as the dear sunlight.” 

"Art thou a spirit, a will-o-the-wisp? Wouldst 
thou dissolve into mist if I touched thee?” asked the 
man, stretching out his hand. 

"Touch me if thou canst!” shouted Glava; and, 
setting Focco at a gallop, she bounded away from 
the stranger, swinging her spear high overhead. The 
turf flew from under the horse's heavy hoofs; the 
branches parted to let her pass. Her laugh came 
back to her pursuer in mocking notes. Focco's red- 
gold mane was full of shimmering light. 

"Stop,” cried the stranger, trying to follow her on 
his limping horse. Her laugh was his only answer, 
but the bare boughs of the beeches had turned into 
so many arms stretched out to hinder her headlong 
flight. 

All at once a shudder fell across Glava's great joy. 
Like a shadow it came upon her, laying cold fingers 
on her heart. What is it? Perchance some re¬ 
membrance of things that had already been? Of 
some dream she had dreamed before? Stopping her 




107 


The Voice on the Mountain 


horse suddenly, Glava stood still; knitting her brows 
she made a tremendous effort of thought. And then 
it was to her as though the glad green forest filled 
with night; as though the spring turned into winter; 
and through the dark, other hoofs were rushing be¬ 
hind her, another voice calling to her to stop. ... A 
groan broke from Glava’s lips. "'Gorromo,” she 
murmured. ''And am I not thine? Is not the wild 
huntress a thing of the past? Should not one victim 
suffice her? Why should things repeat themselves? 
Once was enough—was surely enough! 

"With whom art thou speaking?’' cried the 
stranger, coming up to her side. 

"With a shadow,” said Glava dreamily, looking 
past him into the void. 

"Good that thou didst slacken pace, for my Guthno 
cannot follow thee. He was once a mighty charger, 
but his strength is spent.” 

"The other one died,” said Glava, speaking to 
some unseen soul. 

"What sayest thou?” 

"And it was winter,” continued Glava, "and it was 
night—a long, long, endless night—” 

"Uncanny creature,” cried the man, "dost thou see 
visions, come back to this earth? But lead on, for I 
need water—water for myself and for my horse.” 

"I will lead thee,” said Glava soberly. "But we 
will go less quickly, for thy horse is lame.” 

A silence fell between them, and the man stared 
with a new interest at the strange being at his side. 

f 




The Voice on the Mountain 


108 


Never before had he seen such eyes—curious eyes 
that seemed to look inward, wild yet dreamy, dark yet 
crossed with a star-like light. How powerful was her 
body, how deep her bosom, yet how slim her youthful 
limbs! She sat her horse like a man: yet she was 
a woman in the most perfect sense of the word. The 
red-golden racer which she was riding seemed charged 
with light; it resembled those legendary creatures 
blessed with an eternal life; it was beautiful with a 
beauty belonging to the gods. The shadowy forest 
was a setting worthy of its perfection. Its shining 
hoofs were like four fallen stars moving over the 
flower-covered earth. 

Glava was not thinking of her companion. Her 
thoughts were leading her to another place. But, 
turning her head, she met the eyes of the stranger 
fixed upon her; and suddenly something began to 
rise within her—something joyful like a song, some¬ 
thing light as the sunshine, deep as the sea, vast as 
the sky; something that like a deep-toned bell rose 
grandly from her slumbering soul. And, having 
looked, Glava looked again. It was to her as though 
she was drinking of waters never tasted before. 

'Who art thou?’' she asked after having filled her 
eyes to overflowing. "Thou hast not told me thy 
name.” 

"My name is Doochroon,” said the stranger. "A 
wandering warrior am I. Strife is my life, the sound 
of battle is my pleasure, the wind of change is my 
joy. I am a knight roving from adventure to ad- 




109 


The Voice on the Mountain 


venture. No country do I call my own, though some¬ 
where in a dim far-away land I have an old castle 
awaiting my return, a nest from which I have flown. 
The seasons pass over me with their sun, their 
wind, and their rain. When snow drives me away 
from northern climes, I go toward the warm breath 
of the South; when there the summers become too hot, 
I come slowly back to the shade of forests such as 
these. 

'‘Where'er a strong sword may be needed, mine 
does not rust in its scabbard. More than one wound 
marks skin of my body, but my heart is always ready 
for the sun of tomorrow. My spirit is that of the 
wandering bird, resting wherever it lists. I need no 
roof over my head, for my sleep is blessed, be it on 
the bare ground or in a feather bed or amongst desert 
sands. Like the rolling stone I am that gathers no 
moss. My freedom is my right; my sword has 
frayed many a passage, and many a door has it 
opened to let me through. I love the day that rises, 
and I bless the night when its shadows lie darkly over 
the earth." 

“How didst thou come here today?" asked Glava, 
her eyes still on his. 

“Fate led my footsteps," said he. “No doubt it 
was written that Doochroon and Glava should meet." 

“Doochroon!—it has the sound of whispering 
winds telling secrets in the dead of night. Dooch¬ 
roon !—it caresses my lips when I say it, like a long 
sigh rising from happy hearts." 




The Voice on the Mountain 


110 


'‘Say my name again; say it many times over, for 
it has a new meaning when thy tongue doth pro¬ 
nounce it. Wonderful is thy voice, oh! maiden; 
never before have I heard such a voice.’' 

"They call me the Voice on the Mountain,” said 
Glava; "and in summer all the needy stream towards 
me craving help from my hands.” 

"Art thou a sorceress, fair maiden, that so many 
should crave thy help? Is thy dwelling a hole in a 
rock?” 

"Nay, nay,” laughed Glava. "I live in a house 
upon a mountain summit; a house built of solid stone, 
whence the sea can be seen and the sound of the 
waves can be heard; a house that becomes golden at 
sunset, and fiery at the rise of dawn, but when the 
days are gloomy it is like unto a grey nest among 
drifting clouds. A thorn-bush stands beside it—a 
thorn-bush that only once has flowered—flowered in 
the night like some sweet miracle suddenly come to 
pass.” 

"When did it flower?” asked the stranger, smiling 
into her eyes. 

"Four years ago,” answered Glava. "It was in 
winter, and at first I thought it was covered with 
snow.” 

"Were its flowers so white?” enquired the stranger. 

"Yes, white; as white,” said Glava, "as though tiny 
feathers had fallen from angels’ wings.” 

"And it has never flowered since?” 

"No,” said Glava. 




Ill 


The Voice on the Mountain 


''Perhaps now it will flower again/' laughed the 
knight. 

“I wish it would/' said Glava. "It was as lovely 
as a dream." 

"And who are thy companions, Glava? who lives 
with thee in the house of stone?" 

But Glava gave no answer to this question. She 
only turned her head away from Doochroon. . . . 


/ 




XH 


. . . 'at her heart Love Vay ^ 
Quickening in darkness. , . . 


D. G. Rossetti. 


LAVA and her stranger had reached the spot 



where waters bubbled crystal-clear out of the 


^ moss-covered rock. Swinging herself from 
her horse, the maiden filled her hands at the spring 
and, turning to the wounded warrior, held her drip¬ 
ping fingers to his lips. Like large diamonds the 
drops fell from between them, but the man's mouth 
was cooled by the refreshing draught, and his eyes 
seemed to have found eternal sources in hers. 

No more drops were falling from Glava's fingers, 
but the man and the maid were still staring at each 
other—the warrior’s lips were still pressed against 
the extended palms. 

'dt is life,” murmured the man. '‘Never has water 

\ 

thus refreshed my soul.” 

"It is my very own source,” whispered Glava. "It 
belongs to me alone.” 

"We shall share it now, Glava, shall we not? Thou 
wouldst not send a weary man away from the gates 
of Paradise.” 

"Thou art a passer-by,” sighed Glava. "Soon thy 
desire will lead thee elsewhere.” 


112 


113 


The Voice on the Mountain 


'To me it seems/' said Doochroon, “as though my 
desire would come to an end here; each wanderer 
must find his haven at last/' And, springing from 
the saddle, he stood beside Glava, a man mighty in 
his strength. 

Glava looked up at him. For the first time in her 
life she felt small; small, and as though it would be 
infinitely restful to lean her head against this un¬ 
known man's breast. 

“May I wash and bind up thy wound?" she said in 
a quivering voice. 

Doochroon, with a gesture full of manly grace, 
dropped on one knee and, lifting his handsome sun¬ 
burnt face toward her like a vassal doing homage, 
awaited her touch. 

Trembling were the fingers that unbound the 
linen from his forehead; and very gentle, very 
unlike Glava's, was the voice that asked “Does it 
hurt?" 

“Yes, it hurts," smiled the man; “therefore have I 
need of the kiss upon my brow." 

“Ah! but I dare not touch thee thus," faltered 
Glava. “Be still, and I will wash thy wound with 
water and bind thy head with the kerchief I carry 
against my heart." 

“Thy lips would heal me quicker than water," 
pleaded Doochroon. 

“Be still," whispered Glava. “Dost not hear the 
breathing of the wood^" 

“Is the wood not thine, O Glava?" 




The Voice on the Mountain 


114 


'it was mine till this day,” said Glava; "but now 
it seems to me that it belongs to us both!” 

"Wilt thou remain with me, Glava?” 

"Oh! no, I cannot, I cannot! I shall have to go 
away.” 

"Back to the house on the summit, Glava? back to 
the small stone house?” 

"Yes,” said Glava. 

"And who lives with thee there, Glava?” cried the 
man, seizing her hand. 

But again his question was not answered. Glava 
was bending over the water, wetting her kerchief in 
the cool, bubbling spring. 

"But thou wilt come back to me, Glava? Glava, 
thou wilt come back!” 

Glava drew herself up and stood listening. Those 
words seemed once to have been pronounced by an¬ 
other voice—a voice that had said them to her long 
before. 

"Shall I come back?” said Glava. "Shall I come 
back?” And the pain that rang through her words 
was but an echo of Gorromo’s agony, calling to her 
from where he lay alone. 

"I do not understand the ways of life,” whispered 
Glava. "Joy and pain lie so close together, so much 
nearer than day and night.” 

"Why should there be any pain this moming?"' 
cried the warrior. "Does not the sun lie warm over 
everything? Has it not entered like a song into our 
hearts?” 




115 


The Voice on the Mountain 


'Tes, yes! but it sings too loudly/' said Glava. 
''My bosom cannot harbour so much light!" 

"One must not be afraid of joy, Glava. It is a 
blessing that comes to one. One must hold it fast." 

Glava looked at Doochroon for a moment without 
saying a word. "Hast thou found much joy on the 
roads of thy wanderings?" she asked; and there was 
something like apprehension in her voice. 

"Rain and sunshine, storm and calm—always have 
I accepted the seasons as they came. But thou, 
Glava—hast thou had much joy in thy life?" 

Glava was silent. Suddenly an inexplicable yearn¬ 
ing rose in her bosom—something never before felt. 
It was to her as though she had always been lonely, 
as though nothing out of the past had really existed, 
as though this man at her side meant life. His voice 
was a revelation, and his hands seemed to have been 
sent to her to indicate a new road, never before 
seen. 

"I have always thought that my life was built out 
of joy," she said at last in a dreamy voice; "that I 
was walking through joy, breathing it in at each step 
I took; that it met me at the threshold of each new¬ 
born day; that it closed my eyes at night. But now, 
suddenly, I do not know, I do not know—" 

"Shall I teach thee the real meaning of joy?" 
asked Doochroon, laying his hand upon hers. 

"No! no!" cried Glava, shrinking back. 

"Art thou afraid of me?" 

"Yes, I think I am afraid!" 




The Voice on the Mountain 


116 


'Thou dost not look as though aught could 
frighten thee, Glava/' 

"I am not afraid of things that I see,'' said Glava; 
"of things that 1 can see and touch." 

But thou canst see me, Glava—and God knows 
how I long for thy touch!" 

"Ah! thou dost not understand," said Glava. "I 
am afraid of something that floats about thee—of 
something inexplicable that thine eyes seem to prom¬ 
ise, something that makes me lonely and glad all at 
once—" 

Taking both her hands in his, Doochroon drew 
her toward him so that they stood breast to breast. 

Thou must not be afraid of the things thou read- 
est in my eyes. Glava. My life may have been wild 
and lawless, but my heart is true, and, were 1 to 
give it to a maiden, it would be hers to keep for ever 
and aye." 

I must go—I must go," cried Glava, drawing back. 
"I cannot remain beside thee; 1 feel, oh! 1 feel it 
would not be right!" 

"Why, Glava?" 

'"I—I do not belong to myself!" 

What dost thou mean, Glava? To whom, to 
whom dost thou belong?" And something new 
seemed to rise out of the strong man's voice. 

"1—I belong to all those that need me," faltered 
Glava. I belong to the house on the summit—to 
those who come humbly toward me. ... I belong to 
the world’s great want." 




117 


The Voice on the Mountain 


“\t is I who want thee now, Glava—I, and I alone. 

I shall carry thee away with me—away, away into 
life,^^ 

'd cannot follow thee,'' said Glava sadly. 'There 
is a great sorrow that needs me—a voice that without 
mine would be dumb—" 

"Now it is I that do not understand thee, Glava! 
What hast thou, O glorious maiden, what hast thou s 
to do with pain?" 

"I tell thee," said Glava with sudden wisdom, "it 
is only the things that float lightly over the earth that 
are joyful. The moment one digs a little deeper, 
one finds nothing but tears." 

"Have there been many tears in thy life, Glava?" 
asked Doochroon; and a great tenderness was in his 
voice. 

"No! no!" said Glava. "It was not my eyes that 
wept, but I have always seemed to be listening for 
tears that lie deeply hidden in human hearts. It was 
as though even the sea and the wind had kept some 
echo of a woe that is part of the earth. I have 
always been joyful, a creature born to gladness, go¬ 
ing toward light; but it was to me as though I must 
tread softly and touch things gently, or tears would 
rise from under my feet, spring from beneath my 
fingers. They always seemed so near—I heard them 
in every human voice, they haunted me—and—and 
how shall I make thee understand?—because—be¬ 
cause I was built out of joy, it was as though others 
needed me—needed me because I could give them 




The Voice on the Mountain 


118 


something they did not possess. They seemed to be 
living by a strength that was mine, not theirs—by 
some of the light, some of the gladness that made 
me a creature apart. Doochroon, canst thou under¬ 
stand?’' 

Doochroon was looking at Glava as though life 
had suddenly a new meaning—as though he dared 
no more touch her, as though she were floating far 
above him in purer spheres. The way-stained war¬ 
rior had a longing to fall down and kiss the ground 
where she stood. ‘‘I know not if I really understand 
thee,” he murmured, 'Tor can the earth understand 
the sky? But I know that I love thee, Glava. 
Glava, wilt thou be mine?” 

But Glava turned away from him sadly. "No,” 
she said. "No, I cannot be thine.” 

But Glava! Glava, do not go from me. Glava, 
come with me^ come with me, into a far-away 
land.” 

“I cannot! I cannot!” cried Glava. "Dost thou 
not hear some one calling me? Hearken! it is like a 
great cry of woe.” 

"It is the wind in the treetops, Glava; it is not a 
human voice.” 

"I am not afraid of human voices, Doochroon,” 
she answered. I am afraid of something that, lies 
beneath the words that are said. For years it seems 
to have followed me, asking me to surrender some¬ 
thing I do not want to give up.” 




119 


The Voice on the 'Mountain 


‘'Wilt thou not surrender it to me, Glava—give it 
• to me so that I can carry it in my heart?’’ 

“It might mean peace,” answered Glava strangely. 
“But one man’s peace becomes another man’s pain. 
We have no right to choose our way. We must just 
walk there where Fate has placed us, without trying 
to turn aside.” 

“Where did Fate place thee?” cried the man. 

“Up there near the clouds/’ said Glava. 

“Oh! no, Glava, Fate led thee here to my side.” 

“And yet I must leave thee,” said Glava, turning 
from him; “I must leave thee to go back to the 
clouds.” 

“If thou art human,” said Doochroon solemnly, 
“the clouds will not be able to keep thee; if thou art 
human, Glava, thou wilt come back to me!” And 
the strong man stood quite still with both hands ex¬ 
tended toward her. 

It was not a gesture of prayer, nor was it one of 
entreaty, nor was it a command; it was simply the 
great desire of man offering unto woman all that he 
is and has. “I shall wait for thee here,” said Doo¬ 
chroon; “here near the waters where thou didst 
quench my thirst.” 

Glava had taken hold of Focco’s reins. Her 
cheek was pressed against the great creature’s mane. 
She raised her head to look at the stranger who had 
come into her life, and it was to her as though she 
were looking into the very heart of the sun. But no 




The Voice on the Mountain 


120 


answer did she give, nor did she lay her hands in 
those two outstretched palms. Swinging herself 
lightly on to her horse, she turned and rode slowly 
thence. 

The tread of Focco's hoofs died away gradually in 
the distance. But Doochroon was still standing in 
the same attitude. There was no fear in his eyes; 
he did not raise his voice to call her back. For 
within his soul sang the great certitude that love 
would lead the Mountain Maiden back to his arms. 




XII 


^*0h! Love has wings/ the Unnet sings;. 

But the dead return no more^ no more. 

The sea is breaking its old great heart 
^Against the golden shore. 

Alfred Noyes. 

HERE wilt thou be going, Glava?'' 

It was old Volona who spoke, laying a 
restraining hand upon Focco's reins; but 



Glava stared over her head toward the horizon, with 
a dreamy look in her eyes. 

''I am going to roam hither and thither as is my 
wont, Volona—roam about, 'mid forest and rocks, 
'mid vale and crag. My roads have no name, nor do 
I know before-hand whither my fancy may lead me." 

“Thou speakest of the things of yesterday," said 
the old servant roughly. “There are truths that will 
be serving their time, but today I tell thee that for 
sure thou wilt be knowing whither thy steps will go." 

Glava turned slowly toward her old nurse. Some¬ 
thing like a shudder shook her for a moment; then in 
a strained voice she asked: “What is thy meaning, 
Volona? and why is thy voice so hard? Is thy love 
for me waning? I hear reproach in thy words; have 
I done aught to make thy heart sore?" 

“My heart! my heart! as though it were mattering 


The Voice on the Mountain 


122 


who trod on my heart, at all! at all! It is the heart 
in there that is aching, Glava, and thou will be know¬ 
ing it, Glava—knowing it as well as 1!'" 

Glava did not answer. Quite still did she sit on 
her horse, her eyes retaining the far-away look; but 
her smile was less radiant than usual, and heavy 
sighs made her bosom heave like a swelling sea. 

Narrowly did the old woman watch her; in spite 
of her disapproval an immense pride filled her faith¬ 
ful heart. Had ever woman been more beautiful, had 
ever body been built so strong and perfect? Incom¬ 
parable was the pose of the head on the shoulders, 
the line of the long slim thigh that lay against the 
horse’s flank. How marvellous was the clear-cut 
profile revealed against the sky! and had ever eyes 
been darker, deeper, or more mysterious beneath the 
peerless sweep of the brows? The maiden’s body was 
harmony in human form, was strength moulded into 
curves and lines; and beneath the cool touch of her 
skin it was easy to divine the ardour that ran through 
her blood. 

Volona let this vision of youth in its most perfect 
form sink deep into her heart; and, while she gazed at 
it, a great pain rose in her bosom—a pain that might 
have been joy—and her soul was heavy with the 
grey heaviness of doom. 

Never had Glava looked more wonderful. She 
was clad in a dull red tunic strange of hue; the girdle 
about her waist was of gold; and round her forehead 
she had wound her night-coloured tresses interwoven 




123 


The Voice on the Mountain 


with a golden band. At her side hung the much¬ 
loved sword; its hilt was alive with many-coloured 
fires, for was it not richly encrusted with gems? Over 
all lay the sun, radiant in its newly-risen splendour, 
enveloping the maiden in warm floods of light. 

Glava was as a mystical goddess come down upon 
earth, a figure risen from some unforgettable legend 
of beauty which generations pass on to each other as 
an ineffaceable treasure. Of all this Volona was 
keenly aware; but but it only added to the weight 
which she felt in her heart. 

"'Child, it will be changed thou art,'' said Volona 
raising her voice. "Sure thou wilt be changed a cer¬ 
tain day when thou didst return in the dusk; the step 
of thy steed was weary, and thy eyes, I am thinking, 
looked beyond the things that they saw; with bent 
head didst thou enter thy chamber, without going to 
the man who lay awaiting thee with hungering heart 
—and God will be knowing that his vigil was long. 
Shadows crept into the house behind thee, and me- 
seems they have not quitted thy home since then. 
Thy voice will be having another sound, and when 
thou wilt be leaning over Gorromo to kiss him, he 
will be feeling that thy lips have no more the same 
touch, at all, at all!" 

Volona looked up at Glava, but the maiden sat her 
horse in silence, her lips pressed together, her breast 
moving slowly up and down. 

"And it is shrinking thy step will be when it comes 
back toward us; but when it passes out into the open 




fcl • I - I . . ■I.l I .111. .-!■» .1. . ■ .1 i.l- 

The Voice on the Mountain 124 

it will be as the step of a prisoner escaping toward 
freedom. At night thou wilt be sitting near the open 
casement, and Gorromo's words will fall upon ears 
that do not listen, nor does the sound of his anguish 
say aught to thy heart; it is empty thy hands are of 
the caresses that meant life to the sufferer whose love 
will be crying toward thee in vain; the songs that he 
longs for, thou wilt not be singing; and when he 
whispers thy name it is as though a cold wind were 
passing through thy veins. Therefore, Glava, do I 
ask thee whither Focco will be leading thee beneath 
the face of the sun.'' 

But Glava did not answer; Glava did not speak a 
word. 

“I have something to show thee," continued 
Volona; ''something that thou wouldst have noticed 
if thine eyes had not taken a way of looking beyond 
the things that are at thy feet!" And, seizing Focco's 
reins with an iron grip, the woman led the unresisting 
rider round to the other side of the house. 

"See there," said Volona, pointing to a bush grow¬ 
ing against the wall of stone. "See there! and tell 
me what sign thou wilt be reading? For I think thou 
wilt be seeing it with the same eyes as 11" 

And, looking, Glava started, pressing her hands to 
her heart. "The thorns are flowering!" she cried; 
"flowering for the second time!" 

"Yes," said Volona roughly, "flowering for the sec¬ 
ond time. And 1 am thinking that thou hast not for¬ 
gotten in which year they flowered before." 




125 


The Voice on the Mountain 


Glava said nothing, but, slipping from her horse, 
she knelt down beside the thorn-bush. It was a mass 
of snow-white blossoms, white as stars of frost. 

'‘Of what season will they remind thee?’' asked 
Volona, laying a heavy hand on the girl’s shoulder. 
"Of Spring, Summer, Autumn, or Winter? Is there 
perchance snow on the ground? An canst thou be 
telling me whose is the body that is being carried 
in through the door of the house, and whose blood 
will have been marking a small scarlet line on the 
ground?” 

"Volona!” Glava’s voice rose into the air like a 
complaint. "Volona! what art thou meaning? Thy 
fingers seem to be bruising my heart.” 

"Art not remembering the old legend that speaks 
of the thorns flowering when maidens’ hearts become 
gardens of Love? Thy bush flowered once for Gor- 
romo: for whom will it be flowering now?” 

"Do not torture me, Volona! Thou knowest not 
what thou sayest, I have no answer to give thee— 
but let me pluck a spray of these blossoms and carry 
them to Gorromo’s bedside; he can put them near his 
window, and when the sun shines on them they will 
turn into gold.” 

"Sure I forbid thee to bring him such flowers,” 
cried Volona, "for he too will be seeing the sign that 
I see! Here! I shall be breaking thee a branch, and 
thou canst be riding away with it, carrying it like a 
banner before thee—a banner that shall lead thee ever 
further away from this house!” So saying, the stern 




The Voice on the Mountain 


126 


old woman tore a large twig from the bush and, press¬ 
ing it into Glava’s hand, pointed toward the path that 
led downward into the valley. '‘It is not 1 that will 
be trying to detain thee. The river will be running 
into the sea; sooner or later its course will be ending 
there. Thus has it been written in the Great Book 
of Fate. Hearts must break, and men must laugh, 
and women must weep; but when the morrow comes 
round again the sun will be rising in the same old 
place. 

"Thy lips till this day have opened to say things 
that might have been left unsaid, but now that thou 
hast truths to reveal, thy tongue surely will be dumb! 
And it is sore that my heart is within me; but all my 
tears, I am thinking, would not be turning thy feet 
from the road thou art destined to follow. Come 
back if thou canst, remembering the soul that will be 
perishing if thou takest away thy light." And, turn¬ 
ing, Volona went back into the house. 

Like one dazed, Glava remained standing where 
Volona had left her, holding the bloom-laden branch 
in her hand. She stared at the curious dry wood that 
had flowered with such immaculate blossoms. 
Flakes of snow they seemed, or strange white insects 
that at any moment might melt or fly away. They 
had no stems: their delicate heads grew straight out 
of the branch between the angles of the thorns, which 
were long, hard, and polished, with cruelly sharp 
points. Focco stood by his mistress stamping up the 
ground, tossing the foam from his bit, switching his 




727 


The Voice on the Mountain 


tail; but Glava, indifferent to his impatience, re¬ 
mained as one absorbed in deep thought. 

How marvellous was the world, seen from this 
height! A breath of heaven lay over its austere 
aloofness; Glava was penetrated with its beauty, and, 
gazing about her, she saw it all, felt it all, realizing it 
as she had never before done. It was already becom¬ 
ing a landscape no more quite her own. The eyes 
with which she looked at it had seen other visions 
open before them—visions of other lands to which a 
strange voice had been leading her through the mar¬ 
vels of Spring. For Glava the Mountain Maiden 
had returned more than once to the source in the 
wood; and on this day was not Doochroon to lead her 
to a spot which alone he had declared to be worthy of 
her beauty? Therefore were Glava's eyes becoming 
foreign to things she had known since a child. 

Volona, watching from her window, saw how the 
maiden mounted her house, how she rode away hold¬ 
ing the branch of thorns before her—rode away with¬ 
out turning her head. 

But Gorromo had drawn up the cover over his face, 
so as not to hear the sound of Focco's hoofs carrying 
his love whither his feet could not follow, whither his 
voice could not reach. . . . 




XIII 


Love, love, love; and they hardly knew 
The sense of the glory that round them 
grew; 

But the world was a wide enchanted gar¬ 
den, 

^And the song, the song, the song rang 
true. 

Alfred Noyes. 

N ear the bubbling spring sat Doochroon, his 
sword on his knees. His charger Guthno 
stood behind him, rubbing his steaming flanks 
against the bark of a tree. Overhead the beeches 
were showing signs of green; a soft breeze passing 
through the branches was a message of approaching 
joy. 

The wandering knight's forehead was still bound 
with Glava’s kerchief. His eyes were full of dreams, 
for he saw a long future full of light, and hope, and 
joy. Many roads did he see, leading to many places 
—but no more lonely were his rovings. He was ad¬ 
vancing into happiness with a woman clasped in his 
arms. Flowers did he see, and sunshine, gardens 
full of shade, and nights beneath the smiling moon, 
whose pale face was mirrored in cool running waters. 
And wherever he strayed the woman was with him. 

128 


129 


The Voice on the Mountain 


Her voice was his bugle-call, her eyes were his beacon, 
her hands were his home, and her bosom his rest. 
Wherever his feet left their traces, her feet marked a 
trail at his side. And Doochroon smiled whilst the 
birds sang overhead and the small stream bubbled 
and whispered and murmured like a wise little voice 
telling verities which had nothing to do with the 
joy in his heart. 

But also of war did the strong man dream—of 
glorious encounters that his sword would settle, of 
the clashing of steel, of wild battle-cries, of flashing 
weapons and silver-shining spears. But at the end 
of each day stood Glava, ready to bed his weariness 
upon her lap, ready to receive him with tender words 
and soft-caressing hands. He even had the vision 
of the marvellous maiden swinging a shining blade 
at his side—for was not Glava a woman apart, 
stronger, braver, built of grander stuff, a being that 
the sun had ripened with his rays, that the moun¬ 
tain altitudes had assigned to higher destinies, that 
storm and wind and raging elements had hardened 
into a diamond of priceless worth? 

Thus mused Doochroon as he sat there awaiting 
his love, whilst Focco's hoofs were carrying her 
toward him, down from her eternal heights, down 
from cloudy regions into the very heart of life. . . . 

Now the boughs parted, and she stood before him, 
a vision sweeter than ever man dared dream. Red- 
clad, she sat her charger, her deep eyes gazing into 
his, her lips half open, her bosom swelling with 




The Voice on the Mountain 


130 


happy sighs. Wonderful indeed was Glava, a glo¬ 
rious hope fulfilled. To his feet sprang the man who 
had been awaiting her. Lifting her down, he caught 
her wildly to his breast with a shout of triumph. 
And Guthno, standing behind him, lifted his head 
and neighed, tearing the forest silence with a weird 
note of welcome, to which Focco proudly responded 
with another cry. 

Then away from the bubbling water they strayed, 
down into the heart of the forest, always further 
from the mountain-top, always deeper into the 
shadows, so that the echo of other voices could reach 
Glava’s ear no more. The heavy horses followed 
them crashing through the wood. 

'‘I have a magic spot to show thee,'' whispered the 
warrior; ''a glade where the sky seems to have 
fallen to the ground. Here all the flowers are pale; 
Spring has hardly touched them with her hand yet. 
But down there colours run riot. Down there I shall 
tell thee of wonders thou hast never yet heard!" 

'Thou hast not perceived what I have brought 
thee," said Glava. "See! the thorns are flowering 
for the second time." And, holding the branch like 
a palm in her hand, Glava revealed to him the mir¬ 
acle that had come to pass. But less wonderful were 
the magic flowers than the dawning revelations which 
each read in the other's eyes. 

Down, down they scrambled, side by side, hand in 
hand. The stones rolled from beneath the hoofs of 
their horses, bounding and leaping before them like 




131 


The Voice on the Mountain 


mischievous spirits showing them the way. The 
farther they descended the more leafy became the 
branches, the denser the shade, till a golden-green 
dome shut the sky quite away from their sight. To 
a flower-filled glade did Doochroon lead his love, 
where the ground was as blue as the changing waves 
of the sea, as blue as the Virgin's mantle on the day 
of All Saints, and the silence that reigned there was 
mysterious, like that within the walls of a church. 

Grim, grey giants, the trees towered over them, 
waving their branches like monstrous arms above 
their heads, blessing them or warning them to go 
to another place; but this was the blue-carpeted 
chamber which Doochroon had selected for his love. 
And here it was that he knelt down before her, speak¬ 
ing of his passion, confessing his hopes; whilst she 
followed in his eyes his cherished visions and heard 
from his lips what dreams he had dreamt. 

Like blessed sighs his words stole into her heart; 
his voice laid itself about her senses as incense coils 
round temple pillars, veiling them in fumes of mist. 
Her body seemed to be floating, to have lost its 
weight, to have become light as a feather that any 
breeze might carry away; every sound had a new 
meaning, each colour a new beauty, each perfume a 
new spell; and when, springing to his feet, the strong 
man drew her into his embrace, she lay unresisting 
against his heart, like a bird that has found its nest. 
Lifting her face toward him, her lips seemed to ask 
for his. And when, bending down, he kissed her. 




The Voice on the Mountain 


132 


it was as though her soul were gradually rising, ris¬ 
ing, till like a luminous bird it seemed to spread wing, 
soaring higher and higher into limitless worlds of 
light. 

1 know not what it was that he said to her, nor 
what were the songs the birds were singing, nor what 
were the secrets the branches were whispering when 
the soft wind passed through the trees; I only know 
that the man and the woman stood in the very 
heart of life, and, that, although the girl’s eyes were 
closed, she saw before her a glorious star-strewn path 
leading into a world unknown. Fears were for¬ 
gotten, as other voices were forgotten and the eyes 
overflowing with pain. Forgotten was also the nar¬ 
row track that led through clouds back toward the 
small stone house. 

''I shall hold thee fast,” spoke Doochroon. ‘'Our 
love is a kingdom with many roads; upon each in 
turn shall I guide thee, and each one shall lead us 
further into joy. Each will be different, so that thou 
shalt never be tired. Toward such bliss shall 1 carry 
thee that thou wilt not be able to discern if it be the 
glory of dawn or of sunset that is flooding thy soul.” 

“My soul is in thy hand,” answered Glava, “and 
thy words paint pictures 1 have never before seen.” 

“Thou art mine,” said the knight, pressing her 
closer to his bosom; “mine, mine! Now thou be- 
longest to me!” 

“I know not if 1 belong to thee,” said Glava; “it 
seems to me that 1 belong to Love.” 






133 


-.x;-. -- - ■-- > - - ■■■ 1. -.■.-. 'I 

The Voice on the Mountain 


'‘And am I not Love?’' asked Doochroon. 

"I know not/’ said Glava again. “I know not if 
Love has many faces—but I know that today it hath 
thine!” 

"Glava,” cried Doochroon, "what is thy meaning? 
Ever do thy words astound me anew. They seem to 
come from wells of truth where pain lies crouching 
in the dark. I hold thee here against my heart, I 
feel the throb of thy blood, I see the blue of thine 
eyes, I touch all that beauty that is thine; but at 
times it is to me as though 1 were clasping a phantom 
in my arms.” 

"I know not what I am,” said Glava, "mortal or 
phantom, or a spirit straying over the earth; nor do 
I know what the wind of tomorrow may blow over 
out lives, that today we think to hold in our 
hands.” 

"But thy heart is mine? Speak, oh! Glava! Tell 
me that thy heart is mine!” 

"I know not,” repeated Glava for the third time. 
"1 know not if I have either soul, heart, or brain. 
But I know that I have a body and that the sun is 
warm, and that thy lips are soft, and that to lean 
on thy strength is like being carried upon a wave of 
light.” 

"But thou wilt come with me, Glava? Thou wilt 
follow me to that far-off land where my old nest lies 
empty, where the open windows are always calling 
for the master who has been away too long? Think 
how the ancient walls will rejoice if 1 bring back a 




The Voice on the Mountain 


134 

bride! Thou canst not go from me, Glava, now 
that thy lips have trembled on mine?'' 

"'I think that one day I shall follow thee into that 
distant land," said Glava, looking over the blue¬ 
flowering glade; “for meseems my heart has grown 
into thine. But there is a great pain aching some¬ 
where in my breast, a pain that 1 shall have to face 
again, and again, although it is hardly a pain of 
mine." 

“Of what pain are thou speaking, Glava?" 

The maiden laid her hands on Doochroon's shoul¬ 
ders and gazed yearningly into his face. “I love 
thee!" she cried almost fiercely; “I love thee, I love 
thee! It is as though I had drunk fire into my blood 
with thy kisses; as though another soul had awak¬ 
ened in my body, another vision in my eyes. But 
it is not yet that I can follow thee, Doochroon. 
There are still chains hampering my feet and voices 
calling me back!" 

“Glava, why dost thou torture me? Wilt thou 
never say what are the voices to which thou art al¬ 
ways listening, what it is that calls thee back toward 
thy heights?" 

“I love these blue flowers," said Glava wistfully. 
“Up there no such carpet has been spread beneath 
my feet. And it is to me as though I could follow 
that look in thine eyes to the very ends of the earth. 
But I was born upon a mountain summit, and some¬ 
thing of my soul has remained amongst the clouds." 
Glava paused a while. “Besides," she continued, “it 




135 The Voice on the Mountain 

. — - 

is not only thy thirst that cries to be stilled! My 
hands feel so pitiful that it is as though I could ease 
more than one longing, heal more than one pain. 
But no man will share his treasure with another: he 
wants to be sole possessor, to call it all his own. If 
the eyes he loves looks into other eyes, the hands he 
loves clasp other hands, the lips he loves touch other 
lips, he can feel no joy, only torture, when they re¬ 
turn to his side; and ever will he see a shadow be¬ 
tween him and what he thought was his. Yet none 
of you can know what is asked of our hearts, what 
hands beat against their closed doors, what waves 
of desire dash against the citadels we have tried to 
build around our inner shrine. Ye have not heard 
the many voices asking, imploring, tearing our souls 
with their cries, as though we alone could satisfy 
their needs. We stand looking down upon them 
whilst their longing rises in fumes toward us, and 
we wonder why all the world should be full of love 
that remains unanswered, and yearnings that never 
can be stilled; our hands are full, yet we must keep 
their abundance for one alone, or we murder the 
heart that we think we are saving. But this law 
that we must abide by does not prevent the de¬ 
sire of others from mounting toward us, like 
leaping flames that try to break through our re¬ 
sistance. 

'‘Ah, I do not ask thee to understand, for neither 
can 1 understand. Sometimes meseems God had 
cursed the daughters of Eve, placing within their 




The Voice on the Mountain 


136 


hands a responsibility which is greater than they can 
carry. My desire yearns toward thee, but my pity 
turns its face back to the clouds.'’ 

Doochroon stood staring at the woman he loved. 
He longed to bend down, to lift her on to his horse, 
to carry her away from the voices which pursued her 
even in his arms; but there was something holy 
about this maiden, something that tamed his ar¬ 
dour, something that he dared not touch with greedy 
hands. So limpid were her eyes, and the words she 
spoke seemed to rise from such pure depths of truth, 
that he felt humble before her, like a waystained 
wanderer who suddenly enters a church. His ad¬ 
ventures of yore seemed all at once to become small, 
shadowy, and vain—things belonging to a past to 
which he had no desire to return. The voice of the 
Mountain Maiden had something in it that belonged 
to greater verities, that were part of perfect truth, 
untouched by the sophistries of the world beneath. 
He felt that he must possess her, that life would be 
worthless unless she were his—but he knew that 
never should he lay hands on her beauty till she came 
to him willingly, ready to follow him to the end of 
the earth. 

Daily shall I come to this spot where I have 
kissed thee, where the hyacinths have stared up at 
the wonder of thy face," said Doochroon solemnly 
as though with his hands on an open Bible. "'Here 
shall I await thy will. I feel that thou wilt return 
to me, that in spite of other voices thy heart will lead 




137 


The Voice on the Mountain 


thee to mine; but it shall be at thine own hour, 
Glava, not mine. And even if the flowers should 
fade, changing colour, drooping their small heads to 
the ground, it will not be a sign to me that thou hast 
forgotten the way to our wood. I am sole arbiter 
of my Fate—and have not men been known to wait 
from season to season for the sound of the foot that 
they love?’' 

With a sudden cry like that of a child in pain, 
Glava threw herself into the strong man’s arms, 
clinging to his breast like one drowning. ''Oh! yes, 
wait for me,” she cried, "for I need thee. I know 
not why I need thee so much! For am I not strong, 
unaccustomed to be lonely and to be led by my own 
free will? But I need to know that I can find thee 
at the end of my road. 1 cannot tear my heart out 
of my body to leave it between thy hands; but if I 
could do so, thou shouldst have it for sure. But 
now ask no more questions—let me go! The voices 
are stronger than ever beating against my soul. I 
think that many are streaming toward me; I feel as 
though a river of pain were flowing toward my house, 
and I must be there to meet it, for I dare not take 
from the sorrowful the hope in which they believe. 

I know not why some hearts are destined to be wells 
from which all lips long to drink—but I must have 
springs for all of them till the great hour will strike 
when my face can be turned toward my rising sun— 
till I can flee into thine arms that will receive me 
like a blessed haven of rest.” 




The Voice on the Mountain 


138 


“\ shall await thee/’ said Doochroon simply, with 
the trust of a man who believes in truth. 

And Glava went from him; upon her red-golden 
stallion did Glava the Mountain Maiden ride back 
to the clouds out of which she had come. 




XIV 


He lay there like one who has too much 
to forget; all that was, all but one thing, 
the Last. . . . 


Rainer Maria Rilke. 


HE clouds are gathering/' said Volona. 



'There is going to be a storm. The sea- 


* king is sending out his white horses to warn 
wandering souls to come home." 

She was talking to old Jan, the huntsman who 
came at times to bring venison, corn, and honey to 
the house on the rocks, and who stood now beside 
her watching the billows hurling themselves against 
the grey reefs far, far below, the dull thud of their 
rising wrath reaching their ears like a moan. 

"It is the hearts of the drowned that are crying 
with the tides," said old Jan, folding his cloak closer 
about him. "The wailing waves will be full of 
voices that never can be stilled. Along shadowy 
strands dead women's hair must be floating hither 
and thither like dark clouds beneath the sea. On 
moonlight nights I have been seeing pale faces and 
pale hands imploring for help that never comes." 

"Sure thy old tongue will be knowing many a 
tale," said Volona. "But too full they are, I am 
thinking, of the laughter of ghosts, or of the tears 


The Voice on the Mountain 


140 


that have been wept upon phantom shores. My 
blood will be running cold when I am listening, so 
that each passing sea breeze becomes as a sigh of 
souls that will be lost in the wilderness.'' 

'The sea gives not up its dead," spoke Jan; "there¬ 
fore it is so full of voices that the winds of North, 
East, and West will be carrying like a warning all 
over the earth." 

"Ay, ay," murmured Volona, shaking her head; 
"and sure so it is, it is." 

"On many a night of storm," continued old Jan, 
"have I listened to the sad sea-song; all the heart- 
throbs of men were gathered together in a terrible 
wail of distress, the wild winds blew, and like whirl¬ 
ing wings of earth-bound souls the tempest swept 
over the deep. And once a song was I hearing, grey, 
gruesome, and weird—" 

Jan broke off suddenly and began to murmur be¬ 
neath his breath. Volona stood quietly beside him. 
She knew the old fellow's ways and that there was 
more to come. 

"Out of the fall of lonely seas and out of the 
wind's great sorrow a dirge was rising," continued 
the man; "a dirge like muffled bells beneath fathoms 
of water—unnumbered fathoms that no hand will 
ever have sounded and no eye will ever have 
seen." 

"And it is dreaming thou wilt be," said Volona. 
"Thou wilt not have come up all this way, I am 
thinking, to tell about dirges for thy phantom dead. 




141 


The Voice on the 'Mountain 


Yet, tell me, for whom will those dirges have beeii 
sung?’' 

'Tor drowned lovers,” said old Jan, passing his 
rough hands over his lips. 'Tor drowned lovers 
whose flaming hearts could be finding no oblivion 
till they sank into the deepest ocean graves.” 

"And is it peace they will be finding there?” asked 
his companion, looking with weary eyes over the 
ocean, whilst angry gusts of wind tore at her silvery 
locks, dashing them across her face. 

"Nay,” mumbled the huntsman, "when the waves 
were restless, then the ancient woe would be awak¬ 
ening them in their watery beds, tumbling them back 
toward the shores to which they had once belonged. 
And the dirge for those hearts it was that I was hear¬ 
ing that night in my dreams.” 

"So they will have been dreams?” asked Volona. 

"Dreams, dreams!” grumbled the old man. 
"Where do dreams begin at all, at all, I am asking, 
and where dost reality end? Tell me that if thou 
canst, and what is the colour of night when it will 
be turning into dawn. And who will be telling us 
what the dark wind is relating to the skies and what 
the snow is saying to the ground when it will be 
falling from its height, or what will be the vision of 
the dying deer when I will be shooting my arrow 
right through its heart? ... Ay, ay, it is not 
simply a world for the living, 1 am thinking, or a 
world for the dead. I can only tell thee that the 
voices of sea, and wind, and storm, will be having 




The Voice on the Mountain 


142 


a deeper meaning than ye can fathom, and old Jan 
for one will be knowing many a thing that comes 
to him out of the dead of night. Well, well, but it 
will not be talking about it that will give under¬ 
standing to those that cannot see. Sure and I must 
be off. The clouds have a murky look— 

''And sheer golden was the sun when she rode away 
at dawn,'' said Volona, moving away toward the 
house. 

"And where may she be, our dear young mistress?" 
asked old Jan, with his head on one side. 

"That thou canst be asking of the beings thou art 
so fond of," grumbled Volona. "Thou canst be 
asking it of the clouds, of the wind, and of the 
storm. It is not for me to be telling ye where Glava 
has gone!" 

"Oho! is that the way we are feeling!" mocked the 
huntsman. "Then I shall be wishing ye farewell. 
My way is long, and my old*bones are stiff; and, for¬ 
sooth, ye will be seeing me another day." 

"And sure it can never be known if there will be 
another day, at all, at all," said Volona gloomily. 

"I am thinking that the coming storm has got 
into thy bones," scoffed the huntsman, hoisting an 
empty sack on to his shoulder. "May the good God 
keep you and be sending you sweeter thoughts." 

And it is not the garden of His pleasure that I 
will be," replied Volona in a surly tone. "But I 
wish that Glava might be coming. The clouds 
are racing in troops; the grey Man of the Hills 




143 


The Voice on the Mountain 


is abroad/’ And with something like a shudder 
Volona turned away. 

Jan stood watching her retreat, then called after 
her: '‘And the sad one yonder—how may he be?” 
he asked. 

“The hand of the Lord will be lying heavily upon 
him,” said Volona over her shoulder. “The flowers 
of gladness will not be blooming for him either. But 
our feet must learn to walk over stony roads as well 
as smooth ones. I am thinking that happiness may 
not be counted by the number of kisses we receive, 
at all, at all.” 

“And thy share was surely but meagre,” said the 
old man, lighting his pipe whilst he turned away 
from the wind. Then as an afterthought he added: 
“And if ye had not always been awaiting for mes¬ 
sages from the world below, old Jan and Volona 
might have had a fireside of their own by now.” 
And he laughed a hard laugh. 

“Get thee hence!” scolded the old woman, “and 
use thy foolish tongue for other songs. Volona has 
never warmed her hands beside any flame but the 
one that will be pleasing her.” With a movement of 
ire she swept the loose strands of hair out of her 
eyes. 

“And that is why thou hast always felt cold,” 
scoffed the old man, still struggling with his pipe. 
“Well, well, and sure it will be useless to go over 
the same old ground. Thou wast ever as prickly as 
the thistle that grows in lonely places, even when 




The Voice on the Mountain 


144 


thy hair was not white/' And, having at last lit 
his pipe, the old man hobbled away into the clouds 
and was gone. 

“And it is always of my grey head that they will 
be talking,” muttered the old woman, peering after 
him into the thickening mist; “of my grey head. 
And uncanny the old woman will be to them because 
it is never complaining she is. But what may they 
be knowing of the secrets an old tree guards be¬ 
neath its bark? Ay, ay, no doubt my days of 
blooming roses will be a thing of the past. Maybe 
the thorns will have lasted longer than the flowers. 
But, for all that, their scent has remained in my 
heart!” And with bent head the old woman crept 
back into the house. 

Now the clouds broke into a storm of rain, dash¬ 
ing their showers against the walls. Like a flight of 
phantom swans the mist swept over the house, blind¬ 
ing the window out of which Gorromo was staring 
as was his sad wont. With a weary,gesture he let 
his head fall back amongst the cushions and closed 
his eyes. 

A great change had come over Gorromo's face. 
Pale as it had always been, it was almost ghastly 
now, and the eyes seemed to be consuming it with 
some secret inward flame that nothing could quench. 
The finely chiselled features seemed to have shrunk; 
hollow were the cheeks, and deep lines marked the 
forehead, rendered more dolorous the firmly-closed 
lips. The hand*of death hovered over him. It was 




145 


The Voice on the Mountain 


* 

as though a forlorn hope only had arrested his feet 
on the brink of the grave. 

“Thy freedom is nigh/' murmured Gorromo un¬ 
der his breath. “Only a little while longer, O 
Glava, and no sorrowful face will any more watch 
for thy coming from this window; no tear-filled 
voice will greet thy return. My place will soon be 
empty, Glava; the thread of life is very thin. All 
I ask of thy mercy is not to kill my soul before it 
takes flight. I want once more—only once more— 
to look .into thine eyes and to find my own reflection 
in their depths, Glava! For the touch of .thy lips am 
I craving—of thy lips without the shadow of other 
kisses on their bloom. But if I guess rightly, it 
is already too late, Glava—too late, too late!" And 
from the closed lids heavy tears rolled down the 
man's sunken cheeks; tears heavy like drops of blood. 
Folding his hands over his breast, Gorromo lay mo¬ 
tionless, as one already dead, and the shadows of 
dusk began to creep into the chamber like monstrous 
grey moths. 

Outside, the storm was raging; denser and denser 
became the mists that swept past Gorromo's window, 
an army of wraiths hurrying to an unknown doom. 
The wind howled after them in a vain endeavour to 
frustrate their flight. The wrath in his voice made 
them flee all the faster, for was not his embrace 
destruction, and the song that he sang a war-cry that 
could only mean death? 

To the man within it was as though the gale had 




The Voice on the Mountain 


146 


torn open the doors of his heart, delivering from 
captivity all the sorrow and revolt of his broken 
youth. The voices that screamed with the storm 
were the voices of all his suppressed desires that 
had broken loose, overthrowing his last barriers, tak¬ 
ing their revenge for having been kept within bounds 
too long. 

The moan of the wind fell and rose like the waves 
of a troubled sea; at times a long-drawn wail could 
be heard, like the last sigh escaping from the lips 
of a murdered man. Now the hurricane was beat¬ 
ing with angry hands at the door, was tearing at the 
latch, was trying to force its way into the large low 
room that once had been a temple of Love. 

Suddenly Gorromo opened his eyes. Was it 
really the storm that was wrestling with the door, 
or had he heard a human voice piercing the roar of 
the elements? Glava! Perhaps Glava was out¬ 
side! Perhaps Glava had come back and could not 
open the portal; perhaps the hard metal was wound¬ 
ing her rain-drenched hands. 

'Wolona!’' cried Gorromo. 'Wolona! Volona— 
Volona!’’ 

And Volona, faithful guardian of all his hours of 
darkness, came hurrying into the chamber, wiping 
her hands on her apron, her hair still ruffled from 
having affronted the wind. 

'‘It may be Glava,'' the sick man cried in breath¬ 
less tones. "Let her in, let her in, let her in 1" 

"Nay, nay, it will not be Glava," said Volona 




147 


The Voice on the Mountain 


'‘It will be the wind's impatience or the souls of lost 
wanderers hoping to find sanctuary in thy house/' 

"Quickly, Volona—open, open! Do not loiter: 
she may be cold, she may be trembling, she may be 
afraid—" 

Volona, with an incredulous toss of the head, went 
to the door and, after wrestling a few seconds with 
the key, dragged it open, letting a gust of wind whirl 
into the room, like an enemy bursting through a 
fallen rampart. And—a man stood on the thresh¬ 
old—a tall man, all clad in white. 

"The monk!” exclaimed Gorromo, covering his 
face as though to ward off a blow. "The monk! the 
monk!” 

The stranger's great stature filled the doorway 
The water streamed in small rivulets from the hem 
of his habit. Like the wings of some great birc 
his white cloak was beating in the wind; or it might 
better be likened to a holy banner that pious hands 
carry through a gale toward a church. The eyes of 
the monk were fixed upon Gorromo. He seemed 
not to hear the storm's angry bluster; no words of 
greeting did he say; he uttered no sort of excuse. 
He simply stared at the man on the couch as though 
he could not tear his look away from that ash-pale 
face. For a while neither spoke; the sound of the 
storm alone filled the room. Then with a crash 
the door shut to suddenly, and the two were still 
facing each other in the half dark. 

Gorromo was the first to recover speech. "Thou 





The Voice on the Mountain 


148 


art wet/' he said with innate courtesy. ‘‘Volona will 
light the fire, and it may please thee to dry thy gar¬ 
ments at its flame. Forgive a sufferer if he cannot 
rise to receive thee, but Volona will minister to thy 
wants." 

Still the monk did not speak. But, moving far¬ 
ther into the room, he laid his staff on the table; 
then, going to where Gorromo lay, he bent over his 
couch and in a hoarse whisper asked: '‘Who art 
thou? I came to search for the Voice on the Moun¬ 
tain, and it is a sick man that I find in its place." 

"The Voice on the Mountain has wandered toward 
the valleys," said Gorromo; "and I too am awaiting 
its return." 

"When will she come?" asked Gaetano, and a great 
longing sounded out of his voice. 

"Day and night are all as one to her," said Gor¬ 
romo. "She measures not human suffering by the 
sand that flows through a glass." 

"Art thou always waiting for her?" asked the 
monk, not without resentment in his voice. 

"Yes," answered Gorromo. "And in my grave I 
still shall wait." 

"Was she ever thine?" asked again the jealous 
voice. 

"No, she was never mine!" said Gorromo; and as 
he pronounced the words it was to him suddenly as 
if all his veins had opened and his blood were flow¬ 
ing in a great red river—flowing slowly, slowly, away 
from his heart. The monk’s ascetic face became 




149 


The Voice on the Mountain 


hazy; the room filled with mist; a curious singing in 
Gorromo’s ears was like a far-off heavenly voice, 
and many wings seemed to quiver in the air around 
him. Many wings—many, many wings. . . . With 
a cry Volona was on her knees beside him, raising his 
head in her hands. 

But the monk stood staring down upon him, hop¬ 
ing that the sad man was dead^ 


\ 




/ 


XV 


Where words comp out of the depths of 
truth. 


Tagore. 


OLONA had lit a great fire on the hearth. 



The white-frocked monk sat beside it on 


^ Glava's stool. The flames reddened the folds 
of his garment; his hands were clasped together; his 
back was turned to the couch. Gorromo lay quite 
still on his cushions. But Gorromo was not dead. 
And Gaetano knew that Gorromo was not dead. 

The room was nearly dark. Outside the wind 
was still howling, but the force of the storm had 
abated. The rain could be heard beating in show¬ 
ers against the panes. The chamber was very still 
except for the crackling of the fire and the heavy 
breathing of the man who was ready to wait for his 
love even in his grave. 

‘'Are thy feet bleeding?” Gorromo’s voice broke 
through the silence with the suddenness of a star 
falling in the night. 

The monk started but did not turn round. A 
curious expression crept into his eyes; he held his 
breath as if not quite sure whether his senses were 
playing him a trick. 


151 


The Voice on the 'Mountain 


'‘She told me that thy feet were bleeding/' con¬ 
tinued the sad voice across the dark; “were bleed¬ 
ing because they never before had walked the roads 
of the earth." 

Gaetano turned slowly toward the man who he 
had hoped was dead and with an effort lifted his 
downcast eyes to that man's face. “She told you 
that? She had pity upon my bleeding feet?" 

“She told me why thou hadst come to her; she 
told me of thy longing and of thy thirst." 

“Why did she tell thee?" 

“Because there was a time when she told me every¬ 
thing. Once she had the heart of a child—of a child 
playing in the sunshine with flower-filled hands." 

“And now?" asked the monk, coming a step nearer. 
“And now?" 

“Now she turns her head away when I call her by 
her name. With half-open lips she seems listening 
for the sound of another voice." 

There was a silence after those words; then it was 
again Gorromo who spoke. “Come nearer to my 
couch. I am weak, my voice cannot be raised over 
much, and 1 feel as though thy loathing for me would 
lessen if certain words were to be said." 

The monk lifted his head. “Who said that I 
loathed thee?" The tone of his voice was anxious 
and yet sharp. 

“I hear things that are left unsaid," answered 
Gorromo. “I am but a big pulsing brain since my 
body does not exist, and my eyes seem to have be- 





The Voice on the Mountain 


152 


come so piercing that 1 can read right into human 
hearts. Come nearer. I am but a shadow that soon 
will be a thing of the past; therefore is it useless to 
feel any resentment against me. Bring yonder stool 
over to my bedside—I would look into thy face, and, 
if it is within my power, I would understand thy 
pain.'' 

Still the monk stood irresolute by the fire. Some¬ 
thing within the voice of the sufferer brought a 
choked feeling to his throat. But Gaetano had the 
fierce shyness of caged animals that believe not in 
the kindness of man. His cramped soul longed to 
expand beneath the words of the stranger, but a 
curious diffidence kept him at bay, watching his host 
as though he were in the presence of a foe. 

'‘She was full of pity for thy distress," resumed 
Gorromo gently. “She spoke of thy coming and of 
the help she hoped to give thee; she told me about 
the sorrow that she read in thine eyes." 

“Why is she not here? I came to see her," said 
the monk suddenly. “I came to hear her voice, to 
receive help from her hand." 

“They all come to her," said Gorromo sadly; “they 
all want help from her. She is as living water from 
which all hope to drink. But I tell thee she has 
wandered down into the valleys; water runneth 
downward, however gloriously clear may be its 
source." 

Again there was silence. The crackling of the fire 




153 


The Voice on the Mountain 


was like far-away voices hurriedly spreading some 
fatal tidings which the wind caught and whirled up 
the chimney so as to carry it over the world. Then 
with a sudden movement the monk strode to the 
couch and, seizing the sick man’s hand, questioned 
in a husky voice: ‘‘What wast thou to her? Speak! 
What is she to thee? I must know or my heart will 
burst!” 

“She is the pulse of my life,” answered Gorromo 
solemnly; “she is my hope, my joy, my flame, my 
pain—my grief!” 

“And thou! What art thou?” 

“I am but the breath of a song that has been sung. 
I am a voice that once found an echo in her heart. 
I am the shadow of a thing which she thought eter¬ 
nal, but which God had placed in her hand for only 
a season. I am but a key gone rusty that opened a 
door for another to step in.” 

“What other?” groaned the monk. 

“I have not seen him,” said Gorromo very softly, 
“but I know that he has the face of Love.” 

“Thy words torture me,” cried the other. “They 
are heavy with unspoken possibilities; they rise up 
before me like phantoms wringing their hands in 
despair! Why didst thou not try to hold her back? 
Why didst thou not keep her here at thy side?” 

“Here at my side?” An immense pain trembled 
through Gorromo’s voice. “Can one stay the flight 
of a bird winging toward its mate? Can one hinder 





The Voice on the Mountain 


154 


the sap from rising in Spring? And if I had kept 
her here at my side, what had been the difference for 
thee?’' 

The monk clenched his fist with a gesture of wrath 
and hit it against his brow, as though threatening a 
foe within his brain. 

'd need her! I need her!” he cried. "'She has got 
into my blood, into my brain, into my soul! I hear 
her name in every wind that blows; I see her eyes 
in every passing cloud; I feel her presence like a 
breath about me wherever I stray. Like one pos¬ 
sessed by a madness, I climbed this height to hear 
her voice again—her terribly wonderful voice!” 
The monk covered his face with his hands and stood 
for a moment thus; then, turning again to Gorromo, 
he asked with ill-suppressed fear in his voice: 

'Who think ye has come before me—who? Who 
has taken possession of her heart? I cried unto her 
to give me something, and she left a kiss on my 
brow—one single kiss. Her lips burned me, but her 
soul was not mine when she kissed me; it was the 
kiss of pity. I, who know nothing of kisses, know 
that that was not a kiss of love. And then—did she 
not speak to me of a love that she believed in, of a 
love that lent words to her tongue and power to her 
touch—of a love that filled her life?” 

Gorromo’s eyes closed for a second. An indescrib¬ 
able expression of sadness contracted his features. 

"She thought then that she loved me,” he said, al¬ 
most in a whisper, so that Gaetano had to bend over 




155 


The Voice on the Mountain 


him to catch the words, 'dt was—because—because 
she knew nothing of life. Four years the dear illu¬ 
sion lasted; and I, like a coward—I took the treas¬ 
ures she offered me; took them kneeling as the 
priest takes his vows. But, in taking, I knew that 
I was clasping an impossible happiness, that 1 was 
clutching at a thing that was never really mine. 
Like the dying man who revels in the sunshine, 
dreaming that its warmth was made for his joy 
alone, I received the glory of her gift, trying to 
deaden the certainty that it was a miracle that had 
never really come to pass. I was living with a star 
in my heart—a star that verily belonged to the 
skies and not to me. But its light was so wondrous, 
and so perfect were the days that we lived beneath 
that illusion, that sometimes—just sometimes—I for¬ 
got that I had built my house upon sand.'' 

'‘Did she never really love thee?" The monk had 
now seated himself close by the sad man's side. All 
unconsciously his tone had become softer. It was 
easier to endure the voice of sorrow than to listen to 
the song of success. 

"It were denying the faith I have lived by, were 
I to say that she never loved me," answered Gorromo, 
clasping his hands. "Some part of her loved me— 
but it was pity that made her heart tremble, and the 
divine sweetness of charity that gave me her lips. 
Her young soul was standing on the verge of life, 
like an angel looking down from a high rock upon 
the vast world beneath. It was spreading its wings 




The Voice on the Mountain 


156 


ready to fly toward any sunrise, when suddenly my 
broken life fell across her path. With hands of the 
eternal mother that lies sleeping in each woman, she 
bent down, lifting my sorrow into the heaven of her 
innocent heart, and like a saint she sat guarding it, 
believing it was love. And when my lips hungered 
for her kiss, she gave it to me as the flower gives its 
beauty to the falling dew. My lips were indeed the 
lips of Love, and my love was a man's love, stormy, 
fearful, all-consuming, all-desiring. But I touched 
her lightly, for had I not divined that she was but 
a somnambulist, and that a too rough awakening 
would make her drop from my arms? 

have felt as though waves of my blood were 
spread under her feet so that she should glide gently 
through life; I have felt how each one of my thoughts 
went out to fill her brain, how my words became hers, 
how my soul lived in hers, making of it a marvellous 
chamber full of light. It was as though—as though 
—we had become one: she was the body, the per¬ 
fect form fashioned by the hands of God; and I 
was the spirit—the thought, the spark that— Ah! 
But she never realized it. And one day a miracle 
came to pass." 

Gorromo paused; his wonderful eyes filled with a 
strange exultation. The monk stared at him; and 
so fascinated was he by the sad man’s words that 
for a while he forgot his own trouble. 

''One day," continued Gorromo, "a cripple child 
came with its mother up to this house. I know not 




757 


The Voice on the Mountain 


whence they had wandered nor why they had come. 
Glava was standing in the sunshine, playing with a 
sword that she loves. I was glorying in her ex¬ 
traordinary beauty, and my soul felt very near God. 
She—was out in the sunlight. I—lay in the shade 
of the house. But only the window was between 
us, and 1 loved her—loved her with passionate 
love—'' 

Again Gorromo paused and breathed heavily, as 
though oppressed. 

*'Go on,'' said the monk, touching his hand; and 
his breath also came in gasps. 

'd loved her," continued Gorromo. '"And as she 
bent over the cripple, asking the mother what ailed 
it, there came to me the sudden irresistible convic¬ 
tion that if only Glava would lay her hands upon 
the child it would rise cured from the ground. I 
felt that my love was so tremendous that it was more 
than usual love—that it could not but fill Glava 
with a power beyond the power of earthly beings. 
And at that moment I prayed so earnestly, I put 
such a mighty belief into my petition to the heavens 
above, that it was as though some unknown strength 
went out from my soul to the soul of the girl I 
loved. And as in a dream I saw Glava take the 
child in her arms, press it to her heart. And sud¬ 
denly the child stood up straight and strong—and 
well. 

‘'A cloud came over me then. And afterwards, 
later—I know not when—Glava was leaning over me 




The Voice on the Mountain 


158 


with tears on her face, and she was telling me of some 
great joy, of some miracle that had taken place. 
The child had gone away singing—singing! And 
then it had run down the mountain path chasing a 
sky-blue butterfly. 

"'But I had Glava's hands in mine, and it was as 
though something within me had melted; as though 
part of my soul had floated away to God. I felt 
quite light and tremendously happy. And Glava 
bent down to kiss me—to kiss me on my lips—'' 

Gaetano's hand had closed down over Gorromo's 
burning palm, and both men sat for a while wordless, 
peering into the obscurity; but their fingers were en¬ 
twined, and it was as though each heard the beating 
of the other's heart. 

The door opened very softly, and Volona appeared 
with a candle in her hand. Its small light wavered 
in the darkness like a golden moth. 'The storm is 
over," said the old servant, "but the night is going 
to be very dark." Bending over the fire, she threw 
a log into the flames; then, straightening herself, she 
went over to where the two men were looking at her 
and set her light down on the table. "She sees in the 
dark," continued the old woman, almost as though 
she were talking to herself, "and Focco never makes a 
mistake. I think that the stars will be her sisters— 
but I am pleased that the clouds have stopped weep¬ 
ing, or she would have been very wet." 

"Thou hast belief in her return, Volona?" asked 
Gorromo, looking into her stern old face. Volona 




159 


The Voice on the Mountain 


stood in her habitual attitude, her hands on her hips, 
staring out into the dark. 

'Tes, she will come back,'' said the old woman 
slowly. 'The crows will all be flying in one direc¬ 
tion, so I know she will come back." 

"Dost thou continue to read thy signs in the sky, 
Volona?" 

"One will be trusting what has never deceived one," 
answered Volona, "and the skies will have taught 
me more truths, I am thinking, than the tongues of 
men." Then, turning to Gaetano, who was sitting 
with his head buried in his hands, she inquired with 
kind gruffness: "It is weary thou art, and perhaps 
thou art hungry. I will be setting food before thee, 
and I think thou wilt eat." 

"I have walked many miles," answered the monk, 
"and I am thirsty." Then, turning to Gorromo: 
"But I want to hear the end of thy tale," he said. 
"Was the miracle followed by other miracles?" 

"Yes," said Gorromo; "and Volona can tell thee 
how strange it was!" 

"And it will be about Glava that ye are talking," 
said Volona. "Ay, ay, and like unto a river they 
came, and all of them, as I am knowing, went away 
satisfied, healed, or consoled. And her fame it was 
that spread from mouth to mouth, till in legions they 
came, and none was ever for doubting her power, and 
it was revering her they were, for a saint." 

"And was the power not hers?" asked the monk, 
turning to the old servant. 




The Voice on the Mountain 


160 


'‘I am thinking it was not hers/' was the laconic re- 
ply. 

'Whose was it, then?" 

Volona raised a large, bony finger and, pointing 
toward Gorromo, said in a solemn voice: 'The 
power lay in his love, I am thinking! His immense 
belief in Glava’s perfection it was that brought the 
miracle to pass. Faith removeth mountains, it is 
said; he was the flame, she the altar, God the hand. 
When Glava heals, she will not be knowing what 
language she is speaking: it will be my lord 
Gorromo’s words that will be coming from her 
tongue." 

A heavy silence ensued. The old, bony finger was 
still pointed at Gorromo, but the man on the couch 
had covered his face with his hands. 

"After the pilgrims will have departed," continued 
Volona, "Glava will be coming back with the smile 
of a child. But my lord Gorromo it is who lies pale 
on his cushions, as though the blood had all gone 
from his heart. Glava will be a golden casket, I am 
thinking, but my lord Gorromo fills it with light." 

"I shall never fill it again," said Gorromo dully. 
"What is past is past; another light must now show 
her the way." 

Volona turned toward the fire and, staring into the 
flame, said as though speaking to herself: "It is a 
woman she is. We wanted to treat her as a being 
apart. But 1 am thinking that Nature will not have 
it at all, at all. She will be for claiming her own." 




161 


The Voice on the Mountam 


'Tour years of terrible, pulsing, fear-filled happi¬ 
ness,'' said Gorromo. “I knew it could not last, but 
it was my life; I clung to it, I hoped against hope. 
But now—'' 

''May the White Peace be with thee!" said old 
Volona, going toward him and laying her hand on his 
heart. "Inscrutable are the ways of the Lord, and 
Love has its killing pain; but beyond the Ultimate 
Gates there is freedom, I am thinking—^there is Rest, 
there is Peace. A shore there is beyond the land of 
defeated dreams, where those that have wept over¬ 
much here upon earth shall stand up facing the sun¬ 
rise, with a white flame round their foam-pale brows, 
looking into a radiance where Sorrow is as a thing 
that never was!" 

As she pronounced these strange words the humble 
old servant seemed to have risen to unwonted dignity. 
Even her tongue had lost its quainter manner of 
speech, to become like the tongues of those who can 
see beyond the veils of this world. For a moment she 
stood upright, tall and strong, whilst the single candle 
cast lurid lights over her gaunt form. In wonder 
the two men stared at her, but neither spoke. Then, 
suddenly, something like a shudder ran through her 
bones, and she became old Volona once more, the 
humble Volona who did humble work. 

"Food will I bring you," she said in her habitual 
somewhat grumbling tones. "But don’t be upsetting 
yourselves with unnecessary talk. It looks more like 
rest that ye both will be needing than talk," And, 





The Voice on the Mountain 


162 


after having bent down to put more fuel on the fire, 
Volona left the room. ^ 

''Ah! but I need to talk,'' said Gaetano, resuming 
his place. "It is as though all my life I had not 
talked to human heart!" 

"Mine is listening," said Gorromo, touching lightly 
the stranger's hand. "The night may be long, and I 
always wait—" 

"Tell me," asked the monk, "who is the old woman 
whose tongue was so wise?" 

"She is old Volona, Glava's nurse." 

"Has she always been with her?" 

"Yes." 

"And how didst thou come to this place?" 

For a moment Gorromo did not answer; then, with 
an effort, he said: "Once 1 was a huntsman pursuing 
big game, a loiterer loving both day and night; my 
fancy led me either here or there; no one had a right 
to step between me and the sun. Of ancient blood 
am 1, kin to the great ones of this earth; my father 
rules in a distant land. But that is a thing of the 
past." Gorromo sighed, passing his frail hand over 
his brow; then he resumed: "Ever did the moun¬ 
tains attract me; their great peaks seemed to promise 
me curious revelations, a mystery seemed hidden in 
their strength, a spell 1 could not resist drew me 
toward them. And now 1 know—it was my Fate: 
The revelation was Glava; the mystery was Love; 
the hidden strength was Pain and the near Shadow of 
Death—" 




163 


The Voice on the Mountain 


Faint was Gorromo’s voice; the monk had to lean 
close to him to catch his words. But the sick man's 
wonderful eyes had taken possession of Gaetano's re¬ 
bellious heart. 

'dt was in pursuing her that I came to grief," said 
Gorromo after a short silence, ’'d fell with my horse 
from an awful height. It was night. I had followed 
her for several days; she always fled from me, leading 
me farther and farther from trodden tracks. The 
point of her spear shone in the dark like a star; like 
silver bells was her laugh, pale as the moon her mar¬ 
vellous face. Her stallion gave forth a phosphores¬ 
cent shine. It was winter; the snow was white—ex¬ 
ceeding white was the snow and so luminous that a 
radiance rose from off the ground, as though the 
whole world were encircled by a halo of light. A 
glorious night—a night for happiness, for prayer, for 
achievement. It brought me near unto death. But 
when my eyes opened to the dawn they also opened 
to Love. Love was bending over me; I was lying in 
the arms of Love. 

'd had outstripped my companions, and it was 
many hours before they found us. Glava's voice led 
them to the place where she was holding me against 
her heart. In the dark had she climbed down to 
where I lay, and all night long had she bedded my 
head on her knees, thinking I was dead. 

'There are hours when life and death quiver so 
close side by side that the brain no more clearly real¬ 
izes if it be in this world or in the next; some pains 




The Voice on the Mountain 


164 


are so strong that they almost turn to ecstasy—one 
knows not if it be the stars of heaven that one sees 
or the chasms of hell/' 

"'But thou hast lived, thou hast lived!" cried the 
monk. "Some from the beginning are condemned to 
stand apart as though dead!" 

Gorromo looked very tenderly at the young pas¬ 
sion-distraught face. Handsome it was, but har¬ 
rowed by inner conflicts, the features pinched and 
strangely pale like flowers grown in places where the 
sun never shines. The eyes were sunken, and dark 
lines marked the skin around them. There was 
something of a child and yet of an old man about 
him which was painful to observe. Gorromo felt 
himself in presence of a misery different from his 
own. This man's soul, not his body, was maimed. 

"Brother," said Gorromo very gently, "a great error 
runs through the world. Each man believes that 
life is a garden created for his special pleasure, and 
that all the flowers therein are flowers for his hand to 
pluck. If he could learn to become gardener only— 
a gardener whose every effort tends toward surround¬ 
ing their growth, their beauty, their perfecting, with¬ 
out any selfish desire of possession, he would see life 
in its truer proportions. I have lain here for years, 
immovable, a head without a body; and there is no 
road upon which my thoughts have not travelled. 
Therefore do I speak to thee as I have never yet 
spoken to man. I have gone to the end of every 
hope, and from every hope have I come back. 




165 


The Voice on the Mountain 


"'I hoped to recover, to stand up again one day well 
and strong. I hoped to hold fast my love. But day 
by day I had to learn that it was a treasure to which 
I had but a passing right. I hoped not to suffer; but 
I suffered every torture both of body and mind. I 
hoped to be brave in my sufferings; but I was weak 
and complained like a child. I hoped to die; but I 
live to see what was more than life to me perish and 
fade, and all the tremendous force of adoration I had 
within me could not keep it alive. Hours of fearful 
revolt have 1 known—hours when the worm cut in 
two by the passing foot of the labourer was less ig¬ 
noble than 1. But God remained smiling in his 
skies, and Glava—Glava passed on as though carried 
by invisible wings toward a glory in which I shall 
never share; 

"And now—and now—I see that I was but the gar¬ 
dener whose care made a flower bloom to its utmost 
perfection—a flower that another will pluck!" 

Gorromo turned his face into his cushions and 
moaned like a stricken man. "And thou thinkest 
perchance, because 1 am a cripple, a body more dead 
than alive, that 1 can suffer no more; that 1 ought to 
be resigned. But 1 tell thee that, at certain hours, 
every devil-devised torture creeps into my heart, to 
call up all my vilest instincts, to stir up from their 
depth enemies 1 did not think to possess. And then 
I see pictures better left untold But this is not al¬ 
ways—" 

Gorromo stopped talking for a moment. Then he 




The Voice on the Mountain 


166 


turned to the monk, and a very wonderful expression 
came into his martyr s face. "'At times I can lie very 
still, and then it is to me as though I free my soul 
from the casket that holds it fast. At those moments 
I become as light as air. I seem to be floating in 
some ineffable radiance, and by its shine I can see 
beyond the limits of human understanding. The 
storm is suddenly stilled, and I see other proportions 
—the real ones, those that God has measured. And I 
understand that I am but an infinitesimal part of 
something larger, greater, in which my passion, my 
sorrow, my love, dwindle to nothing. I am part of 
the Great Light itself, just a tiny spark that has been 
lent human form so as to prove that each smallest 
particle of that Great Radiance can light a human 
brain before it returns to its ultimate home. 

"'Ah!” cried Gorromo, “at those moments I feel so 
passionless, so purified, so beyond human frailty, I 
am so convinced of my higher origin, that I could 
take Glava by the hand and myself give her to the 
man she loves. And I could smile the while—yes, 

1 could smile even when she lays her lips upon an¬ 
other’s lips, and I could bless her with the light of 
God in my heart!” 

Gorromo lifted his two transparent hands toward 
some invisible vision, and a holy radiance illumined 
his face. 

For a moment deepest silence filled the chamber. 
It was almost as though an angel were passing 
through the room. Then, suddenly, Gaetano fell on 




167 


The Voice on the Mountain 


his knees by the couch; and, hiding his face in the 
folds that covered Gorromo’s useless body, he sobbed 
as though his heart would break. 

'‘Yes, weep,'' said Gorromo,Jaying his hand on the 
young man's head. "Weep, weep—tears can wipe 
much away; weep! There are hours when man must 
become as humble as a child at its mother's knee. 
Didst thou not come to find a woman, to tear from 
her something she was not ready to give? With one 
draught thou didst hope to quench the thirst of all 
thy life; but God frustrated the plan and cast thee 
together with a brother-sufferer, that thou shouldst 
taste of tears not thine own. Thou didst come to¬ 
ward the Voice on the Mountain only to find a voice 
that rises from the depth of sorrow, toward a differ¬ 
ent height." 

"It seems to me," sobbed the monk, "that I have 
found the Voice on the Mountain; but I feel that I 
am not cured—I am only lifted by thy radiance into 
a purer sphere. Thy voice and thy suffering have 
raised me beyond myself. Thy wisdom is the wis¬ 
dom of one who has tasted of every source and drunk 
at every spring. But I—I have put no cup to my 
lips, and can a man go thus through life? Answer, 
answer! What comfort canst thou give me? 
Speak!" 

But Gaetano received no answer; for at that mo¬ 
ment the door was suddenly pushed open, and Glava 
stood on the threshold—Glava, the woman whom 
both of them loved. The fog floated into the cham- 




The Voice on the Mountain 


168 


ber with her, so that she stood enveloped by a veil of 
mystery that made her more than ever a being apart 
—more goddess than woman, more dream than flesh 
and blood. Her hand upon the latch, she paused as 
though in hesitation, and the flames from off the 
hearth lit up the mist that surrounded her, so that she 
stood in a fairy halo that enhanced her mystical 
beauty, giving an unearthly radiance to her face. 

Gaetano and Gorromo stared at her as though both 
had been struck dumb. Glava made a step forward, 
shutting the door behind her; the water dripped from 
her drenched garments, which clung to her body, re¬ 
vealing its perfection to the fascinated gaze of the 
two men. Throwing up her head, the girl spoke first. 

"'An unwonted guest do I find in our house,'' she 
said, and her glorious voice, the voice that moved hu¬ 
man hearts, filled the silent chamber as with waves 
of harmony. 'The night has been stormy," she con¬ 
tinued, "but the day—the day was full of light." 

"Glava," said Gorromo, stretching out his hand to¬ 
ward her, "we have been longing for thee, and we 
thank thee for having come back." 

Glava advanced toward that pale welcoming hand; 
like one in a dream she went toward it. But when 
she reached it, she did not clasp it. It was as though 
she no more saw it—it was as though Glava had be¬ 
come a stranger in the small stone house. 

"The way up to the summit is steep," said Glava, 
"and it was only here on the heights that the storm 





169 


The Voice on the Mountain 


caught hold of us. Focco and I had to fight our 
way.'' 

Like a faded leaf Gorromo's hand had fallen, un¬ 
noticed, back upon his cover. An overpowering long¬ 
ing came over him to cry out his pain. He felt as 
though he must die unless Glava’s lips were laid upon 
his as in the days that were no more. For a mo¬ 
ment his voice failed him; but, making a tremendous 
effort that seemed to tear his soul asunder, he said 
with an almost steady voice; ‘The storm has 
drenched thee, Glava. Let not the chill get into thy 
bones: go and change thy garments. But if thou art 
not weary, Glava, come back. Long is the road 
Gaetano has made toward thee—Gaetano, our guest." 

"Every guest is welcome beneath our roof," said 
Glava, "and I hope that the holy brother will rest 
within its shelter this night." And, turning*once 
more, "I shall come back," she added, using the words 
that once had had quite another meaning—words that 
now pierced Gorromo's heart as with the two-edged 
blade of a sword. 

The door had closed behind her. The two men 
were alone once more. But Gaetano, with sudden 
understanding, had turned his eyes away from Gor¬ 
romo's face. 





/ 


XVI 


Somewhere there is an end to everything 
and the loneness of the dark is one's own. 


T agore. 


OLONA was spreading the evening repast. Cu¬ 



rious it was how softly the gaunt woman could 


^ move about. The strange household amongst 
the clouds had no servants except Volona and a youth 
who did rougher work, but Volona never allowed any 
other to enter the large chamber where her master 
lay on' his couch. She had placed a small table near 
the sick man's bed, and plates were being laid for 
three. Golden were the goblets which the old woman 
stood in the centre—golden, and of strangely fine 
work—but Volona, when asked whence she had them, 
would only shake her head. 

With large eyes Gorromo followed her movements. 
Her presence seemed to soothe him, but mortal suffer¬ 
ing was imprinted on the sick man's face. 

‘'Not too many candles, I pray thee," begged Gor¬ 
romo as the old servant began to light the tapers 
which she had placed here and there about the room. 
“Better it were this night not to look too closely into 
the eyes we love." 

Volona bent down and blew out the candle which 
she had just lighted. “And maybe it is wise that 


171 


The Voice on the Mountain 


thou art, my Lord Gorromo, but my old heart is 
heavy that it must see this day so soon.” 

'‘Hast thou always awaited it, Volona?” 

"And it may be,” said Volona, "that I have awaited 
it, but when the hour of darkness cometh it is always 
too soon.” 

"But for her the hour is not darkness, Volona.” 

"Ay, ay, sure thou sayest rightly for her—it is not 
dark.” 

"Volona, didst thou mark how bright were her 
eyes?” 

"Ay, ay, my dear one, it will be the reflection of the 
sun she has kept within them, for did she not say 
that it was sunny down there?” 

"How far dost think that she wandered?” 

"My lord Gorromo,” said Volona sadly, "little does 
the distance matter, I am thinking. A little way is 
already far, when it leads away from our hearts.” 

"And think ye that she will never return?” 

"The way that leads backward is strewn with cin¬ 
ders,” said the wise old tongue. "And if I am seeing 
rightly, Glava will only return when she has emptied 
her cup.” 

"How would she then return, Volona?” 

"With bowed head and bleeding feet, I am think¬ 
ing,” said Volona solemnly. "But then she would be 
finding this nest empty, for sure neither thou nor I 
can be standing a vigil that would kill our hearts.” 

"If it is with bowed head that she would return,* 
Volona, then may she never come back! Our Glava 




The Voice on the Mountain 


172 


must always walk in the sunlight with the step of a 
Queen whom fear has never touched/' 

“Ay, ay," said the old woman, shaking her head, 
“and sure it is beyond thyself that thou art loving 
her; and maybe by different roads old Volona and her 
master have reached the same truth." 

“Of what truth art thou speaking, Volona?" 

“My Lord will be knowing of what truth I am 
speaking?" said Volona, bending down to smooth a 
lock of hair from his brow. 

Gorromo seized the old woman's hand with sudden 
fierceness; “Who is she?" he asked. “Wilt thou 
never tell me who she is? And why she knows neither 
mother nor father, neither sin nor trouble, wisdom 
nor fear?" 

But the old woman, drawing herself up, laid a 
finger on her lips. The door had opened softly, and 
Glava was standing in the room. Golden was her 
dress, and gleaming were her eyes; black as night 
the long plaits that fell down over her back; and, 
as she advanced toward Gorromo, she appeared to 
his love-sick heart bright as a holy flame come down 
from the skies. 

“Glava," he cried with the old tender greeting that 
had always been his, “Glava, Glava, Glava my love!" 

But Glava was looking beyond him; her eyes were 
fixed upon the window, and round her forehead lay 
a, wreath of bright blue flowers—flowers that grew 
not upon mountain-tops. 

Volona, watching Gorromo's face, suddenly bent 




173 


The Voice on the Mountain 


down and blew out the taper which she had placed on 
the table at his side. 

'The sun will shine again tomorrow/' said Glava 
like some one who follows up an inner thought. ‘'Was 
the storm very angry here about the lone stone 
house.^" 

“The wind, the rain, and the clouds were calling 
for Glava," said Gorromo, and Volona marvelled how 
steady was his voice. 

“Was the sea covered with white horses?" asked 
Glava. “And did the breakers dash against the rocks 
beneath?" 

“Yes," said Volona. “The Sea-King was full of 
wrath; and old Jan, he was declaring that he heard 
the voices of drowned lovers crying from their watery 
beds." 

“Are there many drowned lovers?" asked Glava. 

“Sure and every day some love is dying," answered 
Volona. “But for all I am knowing it will not al¬ 
ways be needing a watery grave at all, at all." 

“What will it be needing?" asked Glava, still in a 
dreamy voice. 

“Sometimes it will be needing but a word, a look, 
or a gesture, 1 am thinking, and the sad wind will 
have become richer of another voice." 

Glava had seated herself by the table. Taking 
within her hand one of the golden goblets, she looked 
at it. Then she started like some one who suddenly 
awakes: “But have we not a guest this evening?" 
she inquired. “Is not the white-frocked monk in our 





The Voice on the Mountain 


174 


house?’' And a sweet smile spread like sunshine 
over Glava’s face. 

""Child, child!” grumbled her nurse, “is it only 
now that thou art remembering? In truth thou art 
strange this evening. Thy mind will be wandering 
upon distant shores, and thou hast never even asked 
if my Lord Gorromo’s pain be less sore!” 

Slowly Glava raised her eyes to look at the man 
whose heart she was breaking, and it was to her as 
though she were looking through a veil, heavy with 
tears. It was the first time since her return that 
night that she had looked full into his face; and as 
she did so something within her struggled for free¬ 
dom, something that once had been able to sing, some 
song that longed to rise to her lips—some word, some 
name, some sensation which she had once known long 
ago—long ago. . . . 

And Gorromo, watching her expression, knew that 
his hour of darkness had* come. Laying his hand 
upon hers, he said with a voice that might have been 
that of a mother: “Do not struggle, Glava—be at 
peace. I have no pain. I am well, Glava—well and 
happy. For hast thou not—hast thou not put on thy 
golden dress?” 

Glava did not answer. But suddenly something 
caught at her throat, and two large tears rolled down 
over her cheeks; rolled like dew-drops falling from 
a flower that some hand has touched. 

“Go, I pray thee, and call Gaetano,” said Gorromo 
to Volona. “Poor has been our hospitality, and we 




775 


The Voice on the Mountain 


know not from how far he has come.” And Volona, 
obedient to her master's request, left the room. 

Glava sat, her face turned away from her lover, 
who gazed at her as the emigrant might gaze at the 
retreating shores of a beloved home which he is quit¬ 
ting for ever. Then the door opened, and Gaetano 
came toward them on noiseless feet. He moved with 
downcast eyes, his hands hidden in his sleeves in the 
attitude customary to those of his cloth; and yet, as 
he glided over the floor, there was something in his 
gait that might have been compared to that of a 
panther shut up in a cage. But when he raised his 
head, to perceive Glava all golden in her gown, he 
drew back as though afraid. 

Glava rose to greet him, tall and splendid like the 
torch of life; and, unable to face such radiance, Gae¬ 
tano again cast his eyes to the ground. Here in this 
taper-lit chamber she was another being than out 
yonder amongst the wild grey clouds. 

Gorromo, in the overfulness of his aching heart, 
felt an immense compassion for the stranger, who 
from the outset had been debarred from the joys and 
sorrows of life; but Glava was looking at him and 
her eyes were like a soft caress. 

'‘Where hast thou been since last I met thee?” asked 
the maiden. 

“I have been waiting,” answered the monk. 

“We are always waiting,” said Glava in a curious 
voice; and Gorromo, watching her, wondered where 
were her thoughts. 




The Voice on the Mountain 


176 


''I waited amongst rocks and beneath trees/' con¬ 
tinued the monk with eyes downcast. '‘Once some 
shepherds had pity on me; for three days I lay ex¬ 
hausted in their shelter, where they gave me food 
and washed the wounds of my feet. But these moun¬ 
tains are very lonely; it is seldom that one hears a 
human voice." 

'There are many voices in the mountains,” said 
Gorromo, "but it is only by slow degrees that one 
learns to know them. I have learnt them one by 
one." 

Volona had come into the room with a steaming 
dish in her hands, and, hearing her master's words: 
"And it is plenty of time it is my Lord has had for 
listening," she said, "for have not his vigils been 
lonely and long?" 

"Sometimes they have been long," said Gorromo; 
"very, very, long." 

Glava had filled the young monk's plate with the 
food which Volona had brought. In thanking her he 
lifted his eyes; and it was as if having let them rest 
on her beauty, he could take them from it no more. 
"Thy gown," said the holy brother suddenly, "re¬ 
sembles the mantle with which we used to deck the 
immaculate Virgin in days that are past. But her 
smile would never lend itself to my adoration, and 
her eyes were never like thine except once—" 

"Tell me," said Glava, "when her eyes were like 
mine?" 




777 


The Voice on the Mountain 


But the monk hesitated, as one unaccustomed to 
express his thoughts. 

'Tell us,"' said Gorromo in his beautiful, calm 
voice. 

“It was in the month of flowers,’' said the monk, 
folding his hands; “Mary’s month. And after a pro¬ 
cession in her honour, we had stood her in the inner 
court. There she smiled down upon our adoration 
from a rose-entwined altar, her hands crossed over 
her heart. It was night; like ghosts the white 
columns of the cloister stood round the square, keep¬ 
ing vigil with the tall cypresses that sent their dark 
shafts high up into the skies, like pillars of smoke 
from altars that God had blessed. Yes, it was night; 
the last prayers had been said in the chapel, the last 
chants sung. And now the hour for rest had come, 
but with it no peace to my heart. So I bethought 
myself of Mary who stood in lonely aloofness in the 
white-stone court, and with her did I seek refuge be¬ 
neath the star-lit sky. Rose-crowned was her head, 
roses hung in long garlands from her mantle, roses 
were spread beneath her feet, roses shed their petals 
in showers over her dagger-pierced heart, and roses 
were dropping in fading sweetness to the ground 
where I knelt. Their perfume filled the still night 
air, and from somewhere out of the shadows a night¬ 
ingale was singing to its love. That day I had seen 
the first lily bloom in our garden-plot. This lily had 
1 plucked to bring as an offering to the only woman 




The Voice on the Mountain 


178 


who had ever smiled down upon our brotherhood of 
ascetic hungry-eyed monks—” 

Gaetano broke off suddenly as though overwhelmed 
by some remembrance that made his breath come 
short. 

‘'Oh! the glamour of that night/' he continued, 
“the scent of the flowers, the beauty of the indigo 
sky! And oh! the mystic radiance that seemed to 
surround the Virgin's cloak. The nightingale sang 
and sang as though its life depended upon that song. 
Somewhere in the distance a fountain was splashing; 
the sound of the water was a soft accompaniment for 
the bird's sweet notes. Before the Virgin two tapers 
were burning; tall and slim, they carried their small 
lights like holy crowns—crowns which they were of¬ 
fering to the Mother of God. As 1 knelt before her, 
they lit up the lower part of her visage. I could just 
see her half-open lips, her soft rounded chin, the 
straight line of her nose. But her eyes were in the 
dark—they were but two holes without life. Bury¬ 
ing my head in my hands, I prayed, 1 prayed long, 
I prayed desperately; 1 know not what words I said, 
nor what were the petitions with which I wearied the 
Virgin's ears—1 only know that my heart seemed to 
be bleeding its sorrow and suffering there at her 
feet. . . . 

Suddenly I looked up—I know not why—and it 
was as though a miracle had come to pass. The 
moon had risen high in the sky and stood so that it 
poured all its radiance over Mary's holy face. And 




m 


The Voice on the Mountain 


her eyes were looking at me—looking at me, filled 
with heavenly light!'' 

The monk rose suddenly from the table and, going 
over to the fire, with averted face continued hurriedly 
in a husky voice: ''Some madness took hold of 
me then—some madness for which I cannot account 1 
On to the rose-wound altar did I climb, crushing the 
flowers under my hands, my knees, and my feet; yes, 
I crushed them, and they in self-defence wounded 
me with their thorns, staining my cowl with blood. 
But on to the altar I scrambled, and there be¬ 
neath the cold rays of the moon I kissed the 
Mother of God—I kissed her! And in my mad¬ 
ness I thought that she gave back my kisses one by 
one. 

"Then something terrible happened. All of a sud¬ 
den I stood in leaping light! The tapers, outraged 
by the sacrilege which I had committed, had set fire 
to my frock, turning my holy dress into a flaming 
torch. Letting myself drop from the altar, I began 
running through the gardens, through the stone pas¬ 
sages, down the cloisters; running, running as one 
possessed. And the flames ran with me, lapping at 
my life with tongues that were roaring-red. I ran 
and ran till I dropped. 

"I know not how it all ended, nor where they picked 
me up; but a great miracle had all the same come to 
pass. For when they carried me back to my lonely 
cell, my garments fell in blackened shreds to the 
ground, but my sinful body stood up unharmed—no 




The Voice on the Mountain 


180 


wound upon it except the scratches from the roses 
which I had crushed/' 

Gaetano had sunk upon his knees by the hearth; 
bending his head very low, he humbly pressed his 
forehead to the floor. 

Glava rose from where she was sitting. Going 
over to him, she raised him gently from his crouch¬ 
ing attitude and led him like a child back to his seat. 
Then, leaning over him, she pressed her two hands 
against his burning brow and bent his head back till 
it lay on her bosom. But Gorromo, who had been 
looking at them, turned away, closing his eyes. 

A heavy silence filled the chamber. Glava was 
smiling a strange smile, but her eyes were looking be¬ 
yond the walls of the small stone house. For her 
the silence was alive with thoughts that came like 
holy doves right out of the centre of her heart. It 
was with the hands of a mother that she was sooth¬ 
ing the young man's fevered pain; but Gaetano, as 
he leaned there against her heaving bosom, prayed 
that God might let him die. 

Suddenly Glava's voice rose crystal-clear through 
the night, 'd am thinking," she said, ‘‘of how many 
weary feet move over the earth, of how many hands 
must be seeking for treasures they do not find!" And 
bending down, she pressed her fresh lips upon the 
eyes of the monk. “There must be hours in each 
man's life," she continued, “when the wanderer sud¬ 
denly is at rest—when some sort of oasis takes him 




181 


The Voice on the Mountain 


within its shade. But the moment of moving on 
again must be hard, very hard—” 

Gaetano hardly dared breathe, so afraid was he 
that this wonderful being would thrust him forth 
from the paradise which he had so suddenly reached. 
But Glava was hardly aware of what she was fon¬ 
dling. Her hands needed to caress, and something 
which she could not overstep separated her from the 
man whom she had once thought to love. 

Gorromo had again turned toward her. Fasci¬ 
nated, he gazed at those strong white hands the touch 
of which he knew so well, so well. The mortal pain 
within his bosom was such that he wondered to what 
an extent human hearts can suffer without breaking. 
He longed for her voice, and yet with each word that 
she spoke it was as though she were draining his veins 
drop by drop of their blood. 

‘The world is full of sunshine,'' came again 
Glava's sweet voice, “and I never dreamt that so 
many flowers could grow out of the earth, and that 
they could be blue—as blue as though the sky had 
fallen to the ground." 

Gorromo listened, holding his breath; Glava was 
dreaming, Glava had quite forgotten where she was. 

“I never knew," continued the maiden, “how 
sweetly the birds could sing, and how many roads 
lead toward the valleys; nor had I realized how the 
little streams grow when they flow downward, and 
how their waters become calm as though they were 




The Voice on the Mountain 


182 


always coming nearer and nearer to something they 
love/' 

Volona had noiselessly entered the room; and, as 
she looked from one face to the other, her wise old 
soul understood. But upon Gorromo’s visage her 
gaze dared not linger, for verily no eye should enter 
the unguarded sanctuary of a man’s breaking heart. 
Again Glava was talking, and like the two others 
Volona stood listening. It was as though a song 
were coming from the girl’s glorious young throat. 

‘The world is wide,” said Glava, “much, much 
wider than I ever thought; but man’s wants are mani¬ 
fold. And so many prayers have they already 
brought to me, to so many complaints have mine 
ears already listened! All their needs and desires 
have they thrown at my feet like waters falling from 
breaking clouds. And 1 was almost indifferent; I 
hardly understood, till suddenly my soul awoke to 
a need in them that answered some need in my own 
throbbing heart. Then it was like the meeting of 
two rivers: the waters flowed together, forming but 
one.” 

But now Volona advanced into the chamber, her 
hands full of ripe red fruit. “And it is into a trance 
that our Glava’s voice has been singing you both, 
for sure,” she grumbled. “My child, I pray thee, 
take these apples from my hands, or surely they will 
be falling to the ground.” 

Glava started, and Gaetano, opening his eyes, 
slowly returned to earth. 




m 


The Voice on the Mountain 

'"And your plates are only half empty,” scolded 
Volona, fussing about the table. ''And for what, 
may I be asking, has old Volona tired her back over 
the fire at all, at all? Only to see the good food 
wasted? Nay, nay, and a shame it would be.” 

Glava, obedient to her old nurse's request, took 
the apples from her. Like scarlet light they lay be¬ 
tween her fingers. Verily Glava resembled a priest¬ 
ess bringing ripe fruit to a temple for sacrifice. 
The taper on the table was reflected many times in 
her golden gown; it ^seemed alive with dancing 
light. The three others gazed at her beauty as 
though they had never seen it before. 

Suddenly she laid the fruit down and stood listen¬ 
ing. "Wist ye,” she said with an inspired look, 
"that tomorrow when the sun will be high, they will 
all be coming up the mountain in search of me—all 
of them with their many hopes and desires, with their 
complaints and their woes? Hark! Do you not 
hear as it were the sound of many feet and the 
hubbub of many voices that will not be stilled?” 
And, raising her hand to her ear, Glava leaned for¬ 
ward with half-open lips. So full of glamour was 
each one of Glava's movements that those in her 
presence were ever again caught in her spell; hold¬ 
ing their breath, the other three listened till they also 
could almost hear the rumour of crowds advancing 
toward the house. 

"I shall need all my strength tomorrow; I feel it. 

I think I shall need more strength than I have ever 




The Voice on the Mountain 


4 


184 

needed before—but 1 know not why/' Then, all at 
once, turning to Gorromo, she fixed her large eyes on 
his face. ‘'Gorromo! Art thou ready?" she asked. 
“Art thou ready, Gorromo?" Glava knew not why 
she said these words. They seemed to rise all un¬ 
consciously from inner depths over which she had 
no control. 

But Gorromo answered her call, sinking his gaze 
into hers. And as he did so, he knew that he was 
looking for the last time into her eyes; and in that 
supreme communion with the sleeping strength of 
her soul, he also felt that it was for the last time 
that he was filling her with his love—filling her to 
overflowing. In great waves of adoration his pas¬ 
sion mounted toward her, like the altar that sends 
its flames straight up into the sky. In that moment 
Gorromo knew that his end was at hand. 

“1 am ready, Glava," he said, answering her ques¬ 
tion; “ready for all that is to come." 

And Glava, as he said it, leaned toward him as 
though to give him her lips in thanks. But, just be¬ 
fore they touched him, she suddenly drew back; and, 
shading her eyes with her fingers as one who is 
dazzled by a light, Glava turned and fled from the 
room. 

Gorromo remained without movement, his eyes 
wide open like those of one who tries to hold fast 
a vision upon which his life depends. On his brow 
the sweat stood in drops like glistening tears. 

Volona, putting a warning finger to her lips. 




185 


The Voice on the Mountain 


beckoned to the monk, who stood like a lost spirit, 
understanding naught of what he had seen; and, 
taking him by the hand, she silently led him away. 

Volona knew that it was best to leave Gorromo, 
in his hour of darkness, alone with God. 




XVII 

Love seems too great for this earth; the 
strife 

Is worse than death and more than life. 

I T was the sun that awoke Glava next morning; 
it was the sun that brought her the message that 
there were still many days of light for her upon 
earth. He kissed her lids and bade her awake. And 
Glava awoke—awoke to the new day that had come. 
Tall and full of strength she rose, and, drawing her 
curtain aside, let the light fall over her in a warm 
cascade. Lifting her arms above her head, she 
stretched her lissom body and laughed. Glava 
laughed because the sun was shining, because the 
storm was a thing of the past, because down in the 
valleys yonder the flowers were blue—blue as the 
Virgin’s mantle on the day of All Saints. And 
Glava knew that the world was hers for the asking, 
and that Love had a wondrous face. 

Somewhe're beneath her gladness there crouched, 
no doubt, a sensation of pain—for is it not thus 
with things belonging to earth? A shadow lies at 
the root of the flower even when it gazes enraptured 
into the heart of the sun. Golden is its face because 
of the kiss it is receiving, but darkness lies awaiting 

i86 


187 


The Voice on the Mountain 


its hour—and knows that its hour will come. But 
this morning pain had not yet awoken in the maid¬ 
en's heart. Therefore the song which she sang was 
a song of great joy, bubbling almost unconsciously 
from her lips: 

And it is the song of tomorrow 
That I am singing. 

The song that sleeps in my heart; 

And it is the joy of tomorrow 
That is ringing, 

The joy that will show me my path! 

The wind and the rain with their fury 
Have driven all sorrow away. 

The sun in his glory is rising 
To show me an endless way. 

Then Glava took the sword that lay by her bed, 
held it up to the new-born radiance, and, flashing it 
about like lightning in a storm-swept sky, sang: 

The light that lives in this metal 
Is the light once held by the morn. 

It lives, it laughs, it remembers 
The heights where its power was born. 

It knows of unreachable splendours 
To which my joy shall take flight 
But today 'tis my hand that renders 
Its light so wondrous and bright. 

Glava sang like a bird that knows not what it sings, 
and the words came to her carried upon the wings 




188 


i l ■■ .... ■! ■ . . . 

The Voice on the Mountain 

of hope. And whenever she felt joy coursing like 
fire through her blood, Glava needed the companion¬ 
ship of her sword. It was as though its shining 
blade were a link with a life of heroic deeds in which 
she never had a part. Glava might have been a 
daughter of kings—one of those beings whose births 
are greeted by armed legions that proclaim their ris¬ 
ing glory, remembering victories which their fathers' 
fathers have won. The sound of steel was music to 
Glava’s ears, and the beautiful maiden could throw 
a spear as straight as any man. 

The door opened softly, and Volona stood look¬ 
ing at her with eyes brim full of love—and indeed 
the hearts of the gods themselves would have been 
gladdened by such a sight. 

''And sure an early hour it is for the handling of 
a sword," scolded the old nurse, "and it is every¬ 
thing else she will be forgetting in the joy of her 
flashing blade." 

"What else am I forgetting?" cried Glava. And, 
tossing back the thick waves of her hair, she lowered 
her sword to look at her nurse. 

"Ah! me, ah! me, and if it be not thy heart that 
remembers, then sure my words were lost!" 

"Remember what? remember what?" asked Glava, 
seizing the old woman by the hand. 

"The look of those eyes downstairs." 

Glava remained silent a moment. Her own eyes 
assumed the inward expression which Volona knew 




189 


The Voice on the Mountain 


so well. It was as though many pictures were pass¬ 
ing before Glava's brain. 

''Joy must rise above sorrow/' she said at last. 
"Is it not Spring that overcomes Winter, and the ris¬ 
ing sun that defeats the darkness of night?" 

"And sad it is for sure to be winter," said Volona, 
"or the darkness of night." 

"For all that," said Glava almost fiercely, "one 
must go toward light. And perchance, for having 
lived so long amongst shadows, its glory has burst 
upon me more wondrously bright." 

A strange expression of yearning tenderness came 
over the old woman's face. Was it a longing to take 
the lovely maiden in her arms? Or was it perhaps 
because of some blessed remembrance at which she 
was looking back? Who can say? But suddenly 
her harsh features softened, and gentle beyond 
recognition was the voice in which she said: "And 
it will be a light, I am thinking, that shines but once 
in a woman's life." 

"Volona, who art thou?" cried Glava, throwing 
her arms suddenly round her nurse's neck. "Who 
art thou, and who am I, and why do we live in this 
house?" 

"And it may be a shadow that I am," said Volona; 
"a thing tha»t once had a voice, a soul—yea, and 
even a face; a creature who has lived by a law not 
of its own making, but sure a law it is that has 
bowed many a head. But thou—!" and, taking 




The Voice on the Mountain 


190 


Glava by the shoulders, she turned her toward the 
full light. ‘‘But thou, thou art of those that con¬ 
quer, I am thinking; of those upon whom the gods 
have put their kiss. And it is as the star of the 
morning that thou wilt be carrying joy on thy 
brow, so that all sorrow should turn from thee, 
leaving thy feet to wander through nothing but 
light 

Then something quite unexpected, something never 
before known, came to pass: Volona laid her old 
head down upon Glava's shoulders and sobbed as if 
her heart would break. Glava, with the expression 
of a child meeting a difficulty, pressed the dear old 
servant to her bosom, at a loss to know what words 
to say; for Volona’s tears were no less a miracle than 
waters suddenly bursting from a desert rock. Sol¬ 
emn indeed is the moment when those whom we 
imagined as being without fraility suddenly give 
way, revealing depths of either sorrow or weakness of 
which we had never dreamed; and Glava, being ac¬ 
customed to lean upon the impersonal courage of 
her only friend, felt like a vessel which, having lost 
its rudder, drifts upon foreign seas. 

“But thou hast not yet told me who thou art, 
Volona! Dear old Volona! Thou who hast never 
forsaken me—who, ever at my side, hast dried my 
tears, forgiven my errors, listened to my vagaries, 
ever greeting my home-coming with the same loving 
smile.” 

“I am thy nurse,” said Volona, lifting a tear- 




191 


The Voice on the 'Mountain 


stained face. ''And sure and sure, what should I be 
but thine old, old nurse?” 

For a few minutes the two women stood locked in 
each other's arms, all distance between them effaced. 
The old servant it was who first looked up. "And 
sure it is ashamed I am! Ought an old woman to 
be crying like a child at all, at all? See! the sun is 
calling, and I am thinking that I hear Focco stamp¬ 
ing the ground, impatient to be off. But let it not 
be far that thou goest this day, my Glava. For it 
will be a feeling I am having—a feeling that some¬ 
thing will come to pass. So, a promise I am want¬ 
ing of thee—a promise that today thou wilt not run 
away.” 

"I promise,” said Glava solemnly. "I promise 
that it shall not be today that I leave thee. No, not 
today!” 

The heavens had not decreed that Glava should 
ride far that morning. 

The air was fresh after the rain which had washed 
the earth overnight. Like a pure draught of water 
it came to Glava's lips, filling her lungs with new 
life. Her eyes reflected the sky in deeper tones, like 
untroubled waters in the Garden of Paradise. The 
damp rocks glistened, and the little mountain-flowers 
lifted their heads all covered with dew. Glava 
smiled at them and loved them. It was not tears 
that she thought to see on their leaves, but many, 
many diamonds—diamonds in sparkling radiance. 





The Voice on the Mountain 


192 


covering half the world. Focco pranced, danced, 
and capered, snorting through his wide-open nostrils, 
conscious of carrying a burden he loved. The sun 
used his shining flanks as a mirror, drew sparks from 
his ruddy mane. Glava laid her cheek against the 
polished curve of his neck; and the noble creature 
seemed to understand the maiden as though both 
had been born of the same proud race. 

To a lone grim rock did Focco carry his mistress; 
to a rock which overlooked the valley like a fortress 
built by giant hands; a fortress which the gods had 
sanctioned and which the passing centuries had 
modelled with patient hands. Like a monarch 
proudly contemplating lands which he has over¬ 
thrown, Glava sat her stallion looking down upon 
the world at her feet. But the thoughts of the 
maiden were humble, for were they not quickening 
with a new-born passion which she longed to cast 
at a strong man’s feet? And, as always when her 
heart was over-full, Glava lifted up her voice and 
sang—sang to the skies, sang to the clouds, sang 
to the breezes that fanned her face—sang whatever 
words came to her tongue: 

My heart is singing 
As the bells are ringing. 

Ringing for my love: 

There is no knowing, 

Where sorrow is going, 

Going as a snow-white dove. 




193 


The Voice on the Mountain 


The winds are blowing, 

The tides are flowing, 

Flowing towards my love; 

In all things living, 

My great joy is ringing. 

Ringing from the skies above. 

Focco shook his mane and tossed up his head, stamp¬ 
ing the rock. But still Glava sang: 

Pain is calling. 

The dews are falling, 

Falling like tears to the ground; 

But my soul has awoken. 

The chains are broken. 

Broken, and joy has been found. 

When the day darkens. 

My lone spirit hearkens. 

Hearkens for a voice above; 

For a word left unspoken. 

For a door that will open, 

Open to lead me to love. 

The last words came like a great cry of longing, 
and Glava repeated the last two lines: 

For a door that will open. 

Open to lead me to love. 

And, as she stretched out her arms, it was as though 
Glava actually saw some heavenly portal opening 
slowly, slowly, to let her in. 




The Voice on the Mountain 


194 


Suddenly Focco pricked up his ears; his sinewy 
legs began to tremble with tense eagerness; a curious 
shiver passed over his skin. It was as though the 
great creature were aware of some danger nearing. 

''What is it, Focco?’' asked Glava, laying a re¬ 
straining hand on his bit. "Dost hear an unusual 
sound? Is an enemy nearing? Is some one coming 
to mar our solitude, to dispute our right to these 
rocks?” 

But now she too was listening, listening with in¬ 
drawn breath. From the valley beneath, a strange 
noise was mounting toward them, uncanny, like the 
far-off beat of the sea, weird like the soughing of 
wild winds. Then Glava knew—knew to a cer¬ 
tainty—that the multitude was coming toward her— 
coming to ask her help! 

"They are coming, they are coming!” cried Glava 
to her horse. "It was not in vain that yesternight 
Glava felt their feet seeking her heart. They are 
coming—they are coming! But, since last they 
came, life has another meaning; a new light has 
spread over the earth; other will be the touch of 
Galava’s hands, other the sound of her words. What 
was it Gaetano said once—said once out there 
amongst the clouds? that the Voice on the Mountain 
one day would have another sound. Strange it is, 
but it is almost as though Glava were fearing some¬ 
thing—something that might creep toward her out 
of the dark. Answer, Focco! Focco, my beloved, 
can Glava tremble? Is it possible that Glava can 




195 


The Voice on the Mountain 


be afraid?’' But for all answer Focco pulled upon 
the reins, tossing the foam from his bit, whilst his 
four feet danced on the rock as though fire were 
burning beneath his hoofs. 

'‘Yes, we shall fly away home, Focco—home to the 
small stone house. I know not what is coming, 
Focco—if it be joy or if it be pain. But something' 
is coming—I feel it—something is coming to my 
heart.” And, laying her cheek upon the mane of her 
favourite, Glava gave him his head; and back over 
the rocks they clattered, back over the stones they 
flew. The sweat was streaming down Focco’s flanks 
when horse and rider reached the small stone house. 

There in the doorway stood Gaetano, Gaetano the 
white-frocked monk. 

“They are coming!” cried Glava breathlessly as 
she sprang from her mount. “Many, many are com¬ 
ing, and they all want something of my heart.” 

“And thy heart has forsaken thy bosom,” said the 
monk, advancing toward her. “Glava, where hast 
thou left thy lieart?” 

“Each heart must find its haven,” answered Glava. 
“And mine is full of light!” 

“Give me some of thy light!” cried the monk, 
hands extended toward her. “Leave me not alone in 
the night!” 

“And Gorromo?” asked Glava suddenly, a shadow 
stealing over her face. “Listen, listen! his soul is 
crying—crying in the dark.” 

“Gorromo is dying,” said the monk; and there was 




The Voice on the Mountain 


196 


a sound of finality in his voice. ''Gorromo is dying; 
his pain will soon be past!’' 

'‘What sayest thou?” whispered hoarsely Glava, 
seizing his hand. "Thou sayest that Gorromo is dy¬ 
ing? Gorromo, Gorromo—my love!” And Glava 
drew herself up to her full height, pressing both hands 
to her heart. What was it she was feeling? was it 
mortal anguish, or was it—was it—? Ah, no! It 
could not be! She had loved him, and she would 
not buy freedom at such a price. 

"Hast thou seen him today?” asked Glava breath¬ 
lessly. "Is he—is he very bad?” 

"He lies in there,” said Gaetano solemnly, "and 
death is written on his brow. He is pale, but his lips 
are smiling, and his eyes—” 

"How are his eyes?” interrupted Glava. 

"His eyes are always waiting—waiting for thy 
face.” 

"I cannot go to him,” cried Glava, the back of her 
hand pressed to her brow. "I cannot go to him. 1 
am afraid, afraid, afraid. . . .” 

"He will not call thee,” said Gaetano very gently. 
"Last night he fought with God. Today he is van¬ 
quished, and yet he has won.” 

"What dost thou know about it?” asked Glava 
with lowered voice. 

"Last night I could not sleep,” said Gaetano; "so, 
like a lost dog, I crept back to the chamber where 
he was suffering all alone. And outside his door- 
yes, in the dark—I crouched, and I suffered with him. 





\91 


The Voice on the Mountain 


Hour by hour I writhed with his anguish, with him 
and yet apart—on the other side of the door. I 
drank of his bitterness drop by drop, and through 
the dark I heard his heart bleeding, bleeding to 
death.’^ 

"'Be still!'' cried Glava. 'Thy words are horrible. 
I will not hear them. See, the sun is shining; pain 
is falling from me—I can have naught to do with 
pain. Understand ye not that at times the heart 
will not accept it? At times the heart must have 
wings that lift it beyond all suffering—lift it higher 
than the voice of woe." 

"But woe rolls after it nevertheless, like a wave 
swollen by tears," said Gaetano; "heavy tears that 
have many voices—voices that remember, voices that 
will not forget." 

"Be still, be still!" cried Glava again. "Take not 
my courage from me. Hark! they are coming. 
They are all coming, and I must, I must, be strong." 

"Glava, Glava!" cried old Volona, stepping from 
the house, "the multitude is coming toward thee, and 
it is thy wisdom they will be needing, and thou wilt 
not be refusing thy help." 

"My help, my help!" cried Glava almost wildly. 
"And why must they all be needing my help?" 

"It is distraught thou art, my dear one," said the 
old woman soothingly. "I am thinking that the 
monk has been upsetting thee with his words. It is 
loving thee he is; but one heart cannot accept every 
offering. Come, my Glava, come into thy chamber." 




The Voice on the Mountain 


198 

And the old woman, laying a firm hand upon the 
girfs shoulder, led her away into the house. 

Gaetano stood for a while looking after them. 
Then, abruptly turning toward the rock that over¬ 
looked the ocean, the monk fell to his knees and, 
extending his arms like a cross toward the horizon, 
let the sunlight fall full on his face. And after that, 
throwing himself forward, Gaetano beat his forehead 
many times against the ground. 




XVIII 

'A soul whose dream was deeper than the 
skies, 

A heart whose hope was wider than the 
seas. 

Alfred Noyes. 

V OLONA had decked Glava's glorious body with 
Gorromo's golden gown. But instead of the 
golden-winged circlet, the maiden with her 
own hands had pressed a wreath of the flowering 
thorns on her brow. Then, slowly, Glava had 
strapped her sword about her, and slowly she had left 
the room. 

Before the big chamber in which Gorromo lay 
waiting, her foot had hesitated—hesitated upon the 
threshold which she knew so well. 

‘‘Go to him,'' whispered Volona. “It is not refus¬ 
ing thou wilt be to go to him, and he with death 
upon him, standing on the edge of silence, and his 
soul still crying for thee." 

“I cannot," whispered Glava, shuddering. “I can¬ 
not. My feet will not carry me. I feel dark waters 
rising to drown me, and I tell thee that I must live, 
Volona. Oh, Volona, let me live, let me live!" 

“Child," said Volona harshly, “and thy God will 
be turning from thee, if thou wilt be passing this door 


The Voice on the Mountain 


200 


without entering. Within that chamber is sanctu¬ 
ary, Glava; it is knowing it I am. Be not afraid.'" 

am afraid of his eyes," said Glava, ‘'and of his 
lips that I can no more kiss." 

“And rather will he be dying of thirst," said 
Volona, “than be asking of thee something that thou 
art unwilling to give." 

“Is he suffering?" asked Glava like a frightened 
child. 

“He has gone beyond the Sunshine," said Volona, 
“and beyond the Shadow of Fear. His foot is on 
the Threshold. It is the light from the Other Shore 
that already will be kissing his face." 

“Is he changed?" asked Glava, her hand already on 
the door, but her face turned back toward her nurse. 

“He standeth alone before the Great Portal that 
has not yet opened," said Volona; “and so it will be 
changed that he is, I am thinking." 

“I shall go to him," murmured Glava with the 
ghost of a voice; then, pushing the door open, the 
golden-clad maiden entered the room. 

Gorromo’s eyes met her already on the threshold; 
they seemed to take hold of her, to absorb her, to 
make her their own. Glava saw of Gorromo but 
those terrible, sunken, burning eyes. It was toward 
those eyes that she moved unresisting, unquestion¬ 
ing, as one who enters the door of a church. 

“It is the sun that comes into the chamber with 
thee, Glava," said Gorromo, in the voice that once 
she had loved, and that still awoke a deep echo some- 




201 


The Voice on the Mountain 


where in her soul. "'And the multitude is nearing, 
Glava. Glava, dost thou feel strong?’' 

Glava did not answer; her feet were still advanc¬ 
ing slowly, slowly advancing toward those eyes. 

‘'Glava, the storm is over, and the day all the more 
radiant because of the darkness that was; art thou 
ready, Glava—ready for all they want?” 

“I am ready,” murmured Glava. “I have put on 
thy golden dress.” 

“Thou art as the Flame of Life, Glava—my Glava! 
Thy glory must shine for more than one man.” 

Glava shuddered, but she did not answer. She had 
been able to free her eyes, and now they were fixed 
on the ground. 

“Thou hast been sun, moon, and stars to me, 
Glava; thou hast been dawn and dusk, and the hope 
that man carries in his heart. To me the sound of 
thy feet was as music, and when thine eyes rested 
upon mine it was as though all the angels of God 
had joined in the one same song.” 

Glava did not answer. Her heart was beating, 
beating, but she found no word to say. 

“Glava,” began Gorromo again, with a catch in 
his voice. “Glava, it sometimes happens that two 
world-wanderers who have started on a journey 
hand in hand—cannot—cannot remain together. It 
is perchance because the one loiters whilst the other 
goes too fast—or—because the one has perceived a 
light that the other cannot follow, or—Glava, it may 
also be that the one picks up a diamond which the 




The Voice on the Mountain 


202 


other did not see. And so it comes to pass that at 
the end of the way the wanderers are no more to¬ 
gether—that the one stands before the Great Portal 
—alone. ... Do not tremble, Glava; be not afraid. 
It is only this that I want to tell thee: There is a 
Land beyond the sunset, a Shore beyond the sea. 
There 1 shall await thee, Glava. But thou must 
not hurry Glava, because—because—1—can wait— 

The sad voice died away as though tears had 
smothered it with their burden. But once more it 
struggled for expression, and Gorromo said: ‘'Only 
one thing would 1 know of thee, Glava—one small 
thing, before 1 can rest. Is his face—as the dawn, 
Glava? As the dawn that will deepen into a mighty 
glory that will show thee thy way? Will he guide 
thy steps, Glava;? Is his eye truthful, and is his 
hand strong?'' 

“His face is as the dawn," murmured Glava like 
one speaking in her sleep. “His face is as the dawn; 
his eyes are truthful, and his hand is strong." 

“Then it is well, Glava," said Gorromo. “Then it 
is enough." 

Again a deep silence fell like a weight upon the 
room. But suddenly the man on the couch, making 
a superhuman effort, stretched his arms out toward 
his love, and like troubled waters rising out of the 
deep he cried with a gasp: “Kiss me, Glava! Only 
once again, kiss me. Kiss me before 1 go!" 

Glava turned her lovely face toward him; her 
golden gown trembled above her heart; slowly she 




203 


The Voice on the Mountain 


leaned down to give him her lips; her face nearly 
touched his. The light of rapture was already creep¬ 
ing into the lover's look, when suddenly she drew 
back: ‘d cannot!" she cried like one in pain. 
"Hark! they are coming—they are coming, Gorromo! 
Hark! dost thou hear?" 

Gorromo had fallen back upon his cushions. His 
face was deathly pale. "Yes, they are coming, 
Glava," he murmured. "Go to them, Glava; they 
also—need thee. Go, go. But—this evening, come 
back—come back to me, Glava, and give me the kiss 
that thou hast not given me, and give it to me even 
on my lips. It will not be too late." 

And as he spoke these words a great rumour filled 
the air. It was the voices of the multitude coming 
toward Glava—toward Glava his love. 

And now Glava was standing upon the rock that 
overlooked the ocean—upon the rock, the hard rock, 
against which Gaetano had beat his head in prayer. 
A golden flame she stood against the blue, blue sea. 
The sky was cloudless. A soft breeze played with 
her tresses. She was awaiting the multitude that 
rolled toward her, whilst the name of Glava rose 
from a thousand tongues into the air. 

In a long trail they came, those that needed her; 
rich and poor, old and young, strong and feeble; 
some with a curse on their lips, some with a bless¬ 
ing; some in rags, some in scarlet, some in velvet; 
some with bodies all covered with sores. The blind 




The Voice on the Mountain 


204 


were amongst them—the blind, the deaf, and the 
dumb. They pushed, they crushed, they jostled, 
each hoping to be first; the rich man with the gold- 
embroidered mantle stood shoulder to shoulder with 
the lame beggar who had strewn ashes on his head. 

Their voices rose to the heavens with a sound 
of tired tides rolling toward desert shores. Their 
breath lay heavy on the air; their hands, as they 
moved them about, were as anxious birds that have 
lost their nests. But all their eyes were turned 
toward Glava; toward Glava, their only hope. 

From his couch by the window Gorromo saw them, 
heard them, felt them, loved and hated them, turn 
by turn; but his eyes belonged only to Glava, to 
Glava his love. His soul was touching hers, his 
spirit was living in hers—living in hers for the very 
last time. 

And Glava healed and blessed and consoled. 
Glava was as a being imbued with magic power, 
whose hands could not fail, whose tongue could not 
err, whose voice worked miracles, whose words led 
the trembling toward mysteries which they had never 
dared face. But it was Gorromo’s love that up¬ 
held her, that gave her strength and wisdom and the 
power to understand. 

Suddenly, from out of the heaving jostling throng, 
a man stepped forward—a man all clad in white, 
with the face of a martyr who has been crucified upon 
a lonely road. With arms outstretched he threw 
himself down before Glava, calling upon her name; 




205 


The Voice on the Mountain 


his voice was as harp-strings that are being torn 
assunder. And Gorromo, seeing Gaetano’s great 
anguish, felt that here was a soul that Glava must 
save—save at any price. 

Calling upon his last remnants of strength, the 
man whom Glava had forsaken raised his shrunken, 
pain-stricken body and, in a last superhuman effort, 
sent out all his throbbing, passionate soul toward 
his love, filling her with a power so great that when 
her fingers touched the young monk’s heart his sor¬ 
row fell from him as a shadow gives way before the 
sun. Standing up tall and joyful, with the move¬ 
ment of a dove mounting into the skies, Gaetano 
lifted his hands toward the God Whom he had so 
passionately denied. 

As the dying man sank back amongst his cushions, 
the last thing he saw was Gaetano’s countenance all 
radiant with divine ecstasy. And the last sound 
that reached Gorromo’s ears upon earth was the 
young monk’s song of thanksgiving, as with hands 
folded over his breast he turned away from Glava; 
from the woman who had so miraculously healed his 
soul and brought peace to his heart. But it may 
also have been the songs of the angels that Gorromo 
heard—their songs of welcome as with fingers of 
light they opened before him the Ultimate Gate to 
which he had come at last. 

Silence and infinite peace filled the large low 
chamber—a silence deeper than the silence of night. 




The Voice on the Mountain 


206 


a peace vaster than the peace of sleep. The room 
seemed thronged with hushed holy thoughts that 
hovered like a veil of mystery against the raftered 
roof at which the pale face was staring; staring as 
though his dead eyes could see through it, into in¬ 
commensurable distances which his living eye had 
never reached. 

Volona, having watched from her own window the 
healing of Gaetano, had stolen on noiseless feet from 
her chamber to that of her master. A voice seemed 
to be calling her; it was to her as though shadowy 
fingers were leading her toward him. She felt no 
fear, but apprehension stole into her blood like cold 
trickling water. She did not hesitate before the 
closed door, but pressed down the handle and went 
in. 

Like tangible beings peace and silence met her on 
the threshold. They greeted her like noble hosts 
sent out to receive her instead of the man who lay 
there so still—so grandly, terribly, inconceivably 
still. 

Volona immediately comprehended that she was 
in the presence of death. Very softly, without any 
show of emotion, she approached the corpse; and af¬ 
ter one long look into the wide-open eyes she laid her 
strong fingers upon them and closed them for ever to 
the things of this earth. 

As she did so a curious rumour called her atten¬ 
tion away from the dead toward the seething crowd 
beyond. She moved round to the other side of the 




207 


The Voice on the Mountain 


couch, her fingers still pressed upon the dead man's 
lids; and, resting her free hand upon the sill, old 
Volona leaned out of the window. What she saw 
filled her heart with fear. Glava was standing up¬ 
right, against the sky, her hands upon the hilt of 
her sword. Around her the remaining supplicants 
had gathered; those in front had fallen to their knees, 
those behind were pressing forward. And as Volona 
gazed she seemed at first to see only hands—thou¬ 
sands of hands, all stretched toward the maiden, who 
stood perfectly still. 

Hands had always been lifted toward Glava; this 
was no unusual sight. Why, then, did it make old 
Volona's blood turn cold? Why did these hands 
frighten her? Why was their message a different 
one? Volona felt it; and yet she did not understand. 
Was it perchance that dull sound of voices that made 
her tremble—that uncanny rumour like the rising 
of distant winds that bode no good? Oh! those 
hands! What did they mean? Why did they seem 
to threaten? Why did they look so hopelessly 
empty? What were they demanding? Why were 
they no more the hands of supplicants, but rather 
the hands of vindicators demanding revenge? 

The fingertips that lay upon the dead man's eyes 
began to quiver. Some awful emotion was shaking 
Volona till she trembled like a withered leaf. But 
Gorromo beside her lay silent, distant, indifferent to 
the storm that was rising—for the first time indif¬ 
ferent to Glava's welfare, heeding neither strife nor 




The Voice on the Mountain 


208 


peace, neither love nor hate, neither laughter nor fear. 
Volona had removed her fingers from the close-shut 
lids, and with both hands pressed upon the sill she 
was gazing outward, trying to catch what the mob 
was crying, trying to comprehend what was taking 
place. 

At first she could distinguish no separate sentences. 
The crying voices were like the sound of a storm 
howling round forsaken walls. Suddenly a voice 
rose above the din, and the words were clearly 
audible: ''Where is thy power? What dost mean 
by standing there immovable, thy hands like flowers 
that have no scent? We came here to be healed! 
Heal us! Heal us! Heal us! Free us from our 
woes!'' And other voices could be heard: "She is 
an impostor! She tried to be a goddess and is but 
a maid." "She has led us on with false promises; 
she is not the Voice on the Mountain; she is only a 
fraud!" Then like a long-drawn lamentation the 
cry arose: "She is not Glava, she is not Glava— 
Glava never existed! She is but a delusion, but a 
shining lie; the devil invented her. She is a hope 
that forsakes us. Glava never was—never was!" 
Again and again the wail arose, rising and falling like 
a heavy tide: "She is a hope that forsakes us. 
Glava never was—never was!" 

There was a push forward, the mob uttered a 
snarling sound that rolled like thunder round the 
rocks; the hands that were foremost began to lay 
hold of Glava's golden gown. 




209 


The Voice on the Mountain 

To the watching old woman the scene now became 
as some horrible nightmare, as some troubled vision 
out of the realms of fear. All those hands were 
touching her, Glava; were pointing the maiden's 
glorious raiment, tearing it to shreds, soiling it with 
their grimy fingers, tarnishing it with their fetid 
breaths. And at first, as in a trance, Glava stood 
unresisting, uncomprehending, indifferent, like one 
whose soul is asleep. 

But suddenly a rough touch awoke revolt within 
her; and then the inconceivable came to pass. 
Glava the Mountain Maiden raised her sword, her 
shining glorious gem-studded sword. Swinging it 
like a flashing light, the woman who used to heal 
their woes, to carry their sorrows, to understand their 
complaints, stood like an avenging angel with a naked 
blade suspended above their cowering heads. The 
sun streamed down upon the gleaming metal, turn¬ 
ing it into a living flame. Glava's torn robe floated 
about her body in rags of light. She seemed to have 
grown, to be rising like a pillar of fire out of the 
barren rock. The crown of blossoming thorns had 
wounded her forehead, and in large drops the blood 
was trickling slowly down her cheeks. At once ter¬ 
rible and magnificent was Glava. The Voice on the 
Mountain had changed from a blessing into a strange 
and fearful curse. And the multitude, looking upon 
her, shuddered; then, turning, covered their eyes 
and fled. Their feet were now rushing from the 
Mountain Maiden—rushing in disorderly masses 




The Voice on the Mountain 


210 


down the hill. The lame, the deaf, the blind, the 
crippled, rich and poor, young and old, hurried and 
scuffled, pushing, struggling, wrestling, impeding each 
other’s advance. Their voices were terrible, their 
cries rose in imprecations to the skies, they jostled 
and hustled and were furiously frightened. Like a 
bounding stream of drifting refuse, the motly horde 
tore away out of sight. 

As the trampling of a vanquished army in retreat 
the echo of their steps reached the ears of the faith¬ 
ful old servant, who, overcome by all that she had 
seen and heard, had fallen to her knees, her wrinkled 
forehead pressed against the sill of the window. 
Fainter and fainter came the sounds—fainter and 
fainter, till it was but a far-off whisper, dying away 
into space. Then suddenly all was silence—im¬ 
mense, illimitable silence, that hovered like giant 
wings over the tired day. 

It was some time before the weary woman raised 
her head. But when she did ’ so it was to her as 
though a light were advancing toward her; a light 
that glimmered and flickered against the sky—a light 
that had fallen from heaven to bring hope back to 
her soul. . . . 

*Glava, in her soiled but shimmering apparel, was 
coming slowly back to the house. Torn to shreds 
‘was the Mountain Maiden’s golden gown. But high 
was her head; and between her white fingers flashed 
the blade of a glorious gem-studded sword. 




XIX 


Love is more great than we conceive, and 
Death is the keeper of unknown redemp¬ 
tions, 

Fiona Macleod. 

U PON the threshold stood Volona; and behind 
Volona the shadows were waiting—the shad¬ 
ows and peace and silence of death. Wordless 
was the old nurse’s touch as she laid her dry hand 
upon the maiden’s pulsing fingers—upon the fingers 
that were holding the sword. 

Glava gave her the look of an animal of the wilds 
which, trapped on the edge of a forest, feels that 
there is no escape. Glava knew that something 
heavy and inexplicable was going to happen; but she 
knew not what it was. 

“And it is waiting for thee that he is,” were the 
old woman’s first words; “and I am thinking that 
it is the White Peace that he has found—the Peace 
that passeth all human understanding. Ye need not 
tread lightly, for verily he will not awake.” 

Then the door that of yore used to open with a 
sound of familiar greeting, fell back upon its hinges 
with a groan, and Glava stood looking over the void 
toward something—something that was voiceless— 

2II 


The Voice on the Mountain 


212 


something that, with upturned face and closed eyes, 
had nothing more to say. 

Glava looked back toward her nurse. A terrified 
question lay in her eyes. She felt as though her 
feet had reached the edge of a precipice and that the 
next step would hurl her into bottomless darkness. 
She dared neither speak, move, nor think; her soul 
had suddenly shrunken, had become a small fright¬ 
ened thing, like a wounded bird that beats its use¬ 
less wings in the dust. 

Volona, who had stepped into the chamber behind 
her, took her by the hand. Unresisting, Glava al¬ 
lowed herself to be led toward that great silence. 
But when she stood before it, it was to her as though 
she were contemplating a visage which she had never 
seen before. It looked at her, and yet was not look¬ 
ing, because its eyes had gone elsewhere. Where 
had the eyes gone? oh! where? where? 

'‘When was it?’' was all Glava found to say; and 
she said it in a voice that was new to her—in a voice 
that belonged to some one else, to a stranger, a voice 
that was as unknown as that face which lay there up¬ 
turned toward the raftered roof. 

"And it will have been at the moment when thy 
power fell from thee, I am thinking; at that moment 
when the tide turned, and the waves that had been 
kissing thy feet rose to destroy thee. I have that 
thought of my thinking that it was at that moment 
that he died.” 

"And he forsook me?” 




213 


The Voice on the Mountain 


It was half question, half reproach, half a cry of 
astonishment. That Gorromo’s great love could for¬ 
sake her was as if the sky could allow its stars to 
drop to the ground. 

''He forsook me at the moment when I needed 
him,'' said Glava; for this was the first thought that 
came to her simple mind. 

"And It will be thou who didst forsake him," said 
old Volona, lifting an accusing finger. "And he 
never complaining; over the Edge of Silence did he 
step all alone, without crying out, because thy hand 
had abandoned him when his Hour was upon him. 
Everything did he give thee—heart, blood, brain, 
thought; and, having no more to give, being weary, 
he breathed his soul into the Almighty's hand. But 
because of his boundless love of thee, thou wast able 
to work a miracle upon the white-frocked youth 
whom the devil had chosen for his own. He gave his 
last breath so that the brother sufferer should go 
healed from thy side. And thou—thou wilt be 
standing here asking why Gorromo forsook thee! 
Glava! Glava! and will it be that thou hast no 
heart?" 

Glava stood for a moment like one turned to 
stone, her eyes fixed upon that strange secret face, 
which, like a close-locked casket, hid the mystery of 
its last suffering away from every eye. And sur- 
denly all became dark around Glava. The sun left 
the skies, the light went from her heart, that white 
face alone seemed to shine amidst seething worlds 




The Voice on the Mountain 


214 


of gloom; each object lost its colour, all things were 
meaningless, seemed to be retreating from her, there 
was neither distance nor nearness, neither past nor 
future—only the great throbbing, torturing realiza¬ 
tion that it was too late, too late, too late. With a 
cry of distress Glava threw herself on the ground be¬ 
fore the bed. 

Yes, too late to give him the kiss that he had 
longed for, too late to beg for forgiveness, too late to 
pronounce the word that would have made him less 
lonely, too late to tell him of her happiness. For, 
even if his heart had broken over it, Gorromo surely 
would have understood. He would have blessed her; 
he would have let her go; holy words would he have 
given her; without complaint would be have pressed 
the wanderer’s staff into her hand, and he would have 
indicated to her the least stony road. 

She had left him to die alone, wordless, carrying his 
own silent sorrow alone. Yet had they not once 
shared every thought? Had not their happiness been 
holy, had it not floated through this chamber, in¬ 
tangible, sacred, like the incense that veils the lily¬ 
decked altar of a church? She had forsaken him; 
she had not spoken; she had looked into the woe of 
his eyes, and she had remained dumb. Yet one 
word, one small word, would have delivered his soul, 
would have made his going less dark, less lonely, 
less cruel! And now it was too late, too late—too 
late 1 

Rising from her knees, Glava turned to her old 




215 


The Voice on the Mountain 


nurse, who stood silent beside her, arms crossed, lips 
tight shut. For Volona believed in requital, and 
that each soul must drink of the cup of bitterness 
when its hour had come. Therefore had the old 
woman no words of comfort for the maiden whom 
she loved. But Glava turned to her because she 
was the only rock in her sea of distress; turned to 
her with the cry of a frightened child who, knowing 
itself guilty, still hopes for help. 

'd could not!’' she said as though in self-defence. 
'‘Canst understand, Volona? Another kiss was on 
my lips, and it would have been treachery to the 
old love and desecration to the new if I had kissed 
him—kissed him, and were it but once—” 

Glava threw out her hands as though to explain 
something that was inexplicable; something that she 
herself could not understand. Then with a sob she 
continued: '‘My heart was full of a light which I 
could share with none in this house. The past was 
past. Gorromo’s hand could reach me no more; his 
words had no meaning, his voice no sound. I saw 
him, I heard him, I felt him, but from very far. Dis¬ 
tance lay between us, a sudden insurmountable in¬ 
tangible distance; and I could not come back.” 
Glava covered her face with her hands. "I knew that 
I was stabbing him—knew it and yet did not know it. 
Nor did I feel it quite. Because my joy seemed so 
much greater to me than his pain, it seemed to flood 
the whole world, isolating me from all that had been. 
Yes, I was stabbing him. Perhaps. . . . But life it 




The Voice on the Mountain 


216 


was that had pressed the dagger between my fingers; 
the Spring had given it to me, and the wide wild 
woods and the stars of heaven and the flowers of the 
earth. Love had armed me with relentless strength 
—a strength that led me beyond mercy and farther 
than pity itself. One of us had to suffer, one had to 
remain alone. But because it was I who had found 
light, darkness became his share. I had not searched 
for light: it had come to me, it had chosen my heart 
as its dwelling place. It was at once a marvellous 
revelation and a cruelly great weight. It had torn 
the old life, the old peace from me; but it had un¬ 
closed a door more holy than any door I had ever 
entered before. It was a gift from above, and yet it 
destroyed another temple that had also been holy, 
that also had been blessed by God.’' 

A wail of distress rose from Glava’s throat; like the 
mourners of old, the Mountain Maiden beat her 
breast. ‘Tell me why it should be thus, Volona? 
Tell me why? Why? Why?” Volona, with the 
uncannily noiseless movements habitual to her, knelt 
down near the bed. Drawing Glava to her knees be¬ 
side her, she folded her hands, gazing into the waxen- 
pale face. “And if thou wilt be looking into his face, 
sure peace will come to thee, for it will be peace that 
he is finding beyond the Gates of Sorrow. But me- 
seems it is for some sign from thee that he will be 
awaiting. Lay thy head for a last time on his heart 
—sure and now it will be no treachery. Some word 
wilt thou be finding to make his rest more sweet. If 




2/7 


The Voice on the Mountain 


thou hast no message for him even now, then over¬ 
great will be the weight of the soil on his grave, I am 
thinking. Ay, ay, dust on his heart and dust on his 
eyes, but it is that last look of his that I am remem¬ 
bering—that last look that I covered over with my 
old, old hand; ay, for sure, but not before seeing that 
there was one question that he still was asking, one 
wish that had remained unfulfilled. As to the whys 
and wherefores of this sad old world, sure it will be 
life and life only that will give answer to thee. But 
whilst there is yet time, it is for thee to answer that 
question I closed away behind those heavy lids.'’ 

Glava went up close to the couch and, bending 
down, gazed intently into the dead man’s face. Aw¬ 
ful it was in its silent aloofness. It seemed to be 
guarding some deeper knowledge than it had known 
upon earth. Pain was over, the struggle ended, all 
anxiety a thing of the past; the eyes questioned her 
no longer, the loving hands were at rest. The cage- 
door was wide open: now she could fly whither she 
would. But at that moment Glava had the feeling 
that never again would she spread wing, that a song 
of gladness would never more rise from her heart. 
Old Volona, watching her, knew better; yet no word 
did she say, for the old woman felt that Glava must 
have it out alone with the dead. 

'd know what he wants,” said Glava at last in a 
hoarse whisper, after having gazed and gazed as 
though she could not tear her eyes from the awful 
stillness of that marble-white face. "'He told me to 




The Voice on the Mountain 


218 


come back in the evening and to give him the kiss I 
owed him—to give it him, and even on his lips!'' 
Then, throwing from her the sword which her hands 
were still clasping, Glava fell once more to her knees. 
Lifting the lifeless mask in both her hands, upon the 
stiff cold lips that had loved her the Mountain 
Maiden pressed a long, passionate, dolorous kiss. 
Volona, who was watching the scene, pressed her two 
palms against her mouth as though to stifle a cry. 

For a long moment Glava remained with her lips 
against the lips that responded to hers no more. 
Then, leaning back, she tenderly lifted the lifeless 
visage, holding it before her, staring at its dreadful 
inscrutable indifference, whilst wild waves of remorse 
and regret flooded her soul, making her cry aloud for 
the days that nothing—nay, not even God—could 
give her back. She felt as though she were drowning; 
she had the sensation that dark floods were mounting 
ever higher and higher to quench the flames in her 
heart. Then, suddenly, something broke within her 
—something that gave her exquisite relief—and, fall¬ 
ing with her head upon the cold stone floor, Glava 
cried and cried as though her heart would break. 

Volona did not bend toward her; neither did she 
stretch out a helping hand. Volona’s conception of 
justice was that the Mountain Maiden must fight her 
sorrow alone. So the old nurse only turned her head, 
gazing out of the window toward the sun, whose 
journey over the skies Gorromo would never more 
watch upon earth. Her eyes were dry; but, in spite 




219 


The Voice on the Mountain 


of her seeming indifference, every one of the tears 
shed by Glava there on the floor at her feet was but 
an added weight on her tired heart. Volona knew 
that Glava was weeping her sorrow away, that at her 
age tears could cleanse. But Volona knew also that 
she, the weary one, would have to carry the burden of 
this day like a scar on her soul; yea, verily, and carry 
it until her hour of death. 

Glava, lifting her tear-stained face from off the 
floor, asked in a trembling voice: ‘'And what now, 
Volona? What now? What now?’' 

The old nurse helped her to her feet, smoothed the 
tangled locks from her brow, and, looking deeply into 
the fear-filled eyes, said: “Glava, my lamb, and it is 
into the valleys that thou must go. A goddess thou 
hast deemed thyself, and art but a woman—a woman, 
with a woman’s heart, a woman’s hope, and a wom¬ 
an’s woe. He who lies there gave thee, I am thinking, 
a power that was never thine. His love was as a 
flame lighting thy soul, and when the flame was con¬ 
sumed thy power forsook thee. And sure it was at 
the very moment when God called him back before 
his throne. And it will be all those hands I am see¬ 
ing, all those angry hands, and thy danger, and that 
dear face of thine leaning over them. And it was 
not understanding thou wast at all, at all, what had 
happened, any more than they. Only when their 
blessing turned to curses and their fingers to claws, 
then the wild huntress entered thy body, chasing 




The Voice on the Mountain 


220 


the goddess away, and thy sword it was that gleamed 
above their cowardly heads like the wrath of God. 
Glava had become a woman once more! 

'Therefore will 1 be telling thee, the light which 
thou hast been living by for four long years has 
melted like foam upon the sand; and now, I am think¬ 
ing, the hour has struck when the Voice on the Moun¬ 
tain must go down into the valley. It is the clouds 
that thou must be quitting, to walk upon firmer 
ground. It is not knowing I am what spell calls thee, 
nor toward what land thy foot will be turning. It is 
not many answers Volona has received in her life. 
Nor will I be hindering thy going, even if 1 could. 
My eyes will be growing dim, and shaky my hands. 
The young brood must be building nests whilst the 
old ones who cannot fly must be left behind. 

"Now that thy kiss lies upon that upturned face, 
it is saying I am. Go to thy Love; thy instinct will 
lead thee. But it is hoping I am that he has a brave 
face—There was a sob in old Volona’s throat; 
but she put a shaking hand to it, and it was still. 
"I am not knowing if thou wilt be coming back to old 
Volona. But it will be waiting for thee she will be, 
hour for hour, day for day. And sure it will be 
moonrise in the blackness of my heart when I will 
be hearing the sound of thy step. But now thou 
must be going from me to thy woman's life. 

"1 will go," said Glava simply, as one who does not 
question her Fate. "Doochroon is waiting for me 
down there where the flowers bloom blue." 




221 


The Voice on the Mountain 


''Ay, ay, go, my dear lamb; go to thy Doochroon, 
and may his heart be a nest to thee, and his hand a 
promise, and his eyes two stars that will show thee 
thy way in the dark.” Covering her mouth with 
her hands to suppress the cry that rose from her 
lonely soul, the old woman turned away. 

But Glava, in her torn golden gown, bent down to 
pick up her fallen sword. Then without casting a 
last glance toward the window, she silently left the 
room. 


« 


I 




XX 


. . . and their thoughts wandered to¬ 
wards some bliss 

Unknown, unfathomed, far, how far 
away, 

Where God has gathered all the eternities 
Into strange heavens, beyond the night 
and day. 

'Alfred Noyes. 

V OLONA was alone in the small stone house— 
alone with the silent dead. On her knees was 
old Volona—on her knees on the hard cold 
floor. The day was dying in golden glory, but Vol- 
ona's work of love was done. Upon his couch lay 
Gorromo, decked in the attire which he had worn 
when belonging to the great ones of this earth. A 
crimson mantle was folded about him. The once so 
tender hands rested lightly like two strange flowers 
upon the hilt of his sword. But his face was so 
transparent, and so pale his forehead, that Volona had 
nat dared weigh it with a heavy steel helmet; so, 
leaving it uncovered, she had but smoothed his 
golden-brown hair. 

Kneeling beside him after having completed her 
work, Volona’s hands had encountered the thorny 
wreath which Glava had worn when the mob had 


222 


223 


The Voice on the Mountain 


turned against her, their love changing into fury as 
the storm rises out of quiet seas, that very same morn¬ 
ing that seemed so long, so long ago. The miracu¬ 
lous blossoms were snow-white, still unfaded between 
the hard, long thorns. No doubt the wreath had 
fallen from Glava's forehead when she bowed it in 
sorrow to the ground. Volona had perceived that the 
points of the prickles were stained with blood—with 
Glava’s blood. Therefore upon the lover’s heart had 
the old woman laid it—upon the heart which Glava 
had broken with her two white hands. The setting 
sun was now falling upon it, turning it into gleaming 
gold. Of gold were also the walls of the chamber, 
and of gold the head of the weary woman who was 
praying with face hidden amongst the crimson folds 
of her master’s cloak. The light lay like a blessing 
upon these lonely two, speaking of joys beyond the 
sunset and of hopes beyond the stars. 

And that old secret of the setting sun 
Which, to the glory of eternity, 

Time tolling like a distant bell. 

Evermore faints to tell. 

And ever telling, never yet has told. 

But one spot in the room had gathered about it 
the greatest glory; the face of the lover, that still 
lone face. As the halo lies round the visage of a 
martyred saint, thus did the dying sunlight encircle 
the dead man’s brow. But Volona, praying, saw not 




The Voice on the Mountain 


224 


its radiance. To her that pale countenance was but 
the countenance of death. 

So absorbed was Volona in her prayers that she 
heard not the loud knock which broke the silence 
around her. It was repeated once, twice, thrice, be¬ 
fore she lifted her face from her hands. Thud, thud, 
the knocks were repeated. Rising stiffly from her 
humble attitude, heavily yet silently she moved over 
the floor, as though dragging after her some deadly 
weight. Opening the door, she remained standing 
with downcast eyes and folded fingers, ready for 
whatever was to come. At last looking up, she 
started and, throwing out her hand, caught at her 
bosom as one who has been shot through the heart. 

On the threshold an old man was standing, stately, 
white-bearded, with a cloak thrown over his shoulder 
and a spear in his hand. About his helmet lay a 
golden circlet. He carried his head like one in the 
habit of looking over the prostrate throngs toward 
horizons which, he knows, he can hold in the five 
curved fingers of his hand. Hard was his eye, yet 
tired as the eye of a shepherd who has watched too 
long; his gait was upright, and yet when looking at 
him one felt that his shoulders were accustomed to 
carry a weight beneath which others would no doubt 
have succumbed. Step by step, as the stranger ad¬ 
vanced, Volona retreated, till she stood beside the 
silent sleeper. One hand resting upon his forehead, 
she awaited whatever words were to be said. The 
sun was now withdrawing his radiance from the 




225 


The Voice on the Mountain 


lonely chamber, leaving the walls already dark; but 
he seemed loth to bid farewell to the lover whose 
heart had been broken, loth to leave him to the sad 
shades of night. As the tall stranger approached, 
the light still lay warm and luminous upon the up¬ 
turned face. 

Bending over it, for the first time the old man 
spoke: “At the death-bed of what man do I find 
thee, Volona Lochanlee? And where is she whom I 
left to the care of thy heart?” 

“And little will ye have been minding about me 
and my heart, O Dullan Dulach,” was the rough re¬ 
ply he got. 

“Again I am asking thee, Volona Lochanlee: 
Where is she whom I have come to seek? whom mine 
eyes, that have seen too much, want to rest upon at 
the end of a weary day?” 

“And they will not all have been weary—thy days, 
Dullan Dulach, 1 am thinking,” was all the answer 
she gave. 

‘‘Thou art ever the same Volona Lochanlee, un- 
bendable, hard, and lonely as the wild westering 

wind.” 

“And it will not have been my fault if I am lonely,” 
said Volona fiercely. “I bent once too often, Dullan 
Dulach, and thou wilt be knowing it. But once was 
enough for me; now I will be standing upright, and 
it will not be the looking into thy face that will ever 
more bring me low.” 

“Volona Lochanlee, where is my daughter?” said 




The Voice on the Mountain 


226 


the man, seizing her hand/' Answer that question if 
thou canst!" 

''And there will be no question of Dullan Dulach's 
I will be unable to answer, I am thinking," spoke 
Volona proudly, lifting her head. "And it is into the 
valleys that Glava, thy daughter, has wandered— 
wandered right away from this house." 

"Gone! Gone! And since when?" 

"And it may be that it is only since this morning; 
and it may be that it was written in the stars that 
this very day thy heart should remember, when it is 
too late!" 

"Volona Lochanlee," cried the old warrior, "what 
is thy meaning? And who is this silent pale man?" 

"And it will be telling thee I shall, who is this 
man," said Volona harshly. "And it may be that he 
is the Almighty's eternal justice. Life, Love, Sorrow 
broke him, as once it was Life, Love, and Sorrow that 
broke the heart of Volona Lochanlee." 

"Who is he?" repeated the stranger. "Untie thy 
old tongue and speak." 

"And I think thou wilt be for remembering that 
my tongue was not always old, Dullan Dulach," said 
Volona. "But because thou hast come from thy 
laughing life into my silence, I will not be keeping 
dumb about what I know." Bending with a tender 
expression toward the dead man, Volona passed a 
trembling hand over his waxen face. "And when it 
was living he was, this man loved thy daughter. But 
she, in the wild recklessness of her youth, led him 




221 


The Voice on the Mountain 


nigh unto the Shadow of Death. And it will have 
been four years ago if I am rightly remembering— 
four long years ago. And since that night when he 
fell with his stallion from a terrible height, it is here 
that he has been lying, loving the maiden who 
brought him to the edge of his grave.” 

''But who was he? Who was he?” insisted the 
stranger. 

"Ye need be for fearing no treachery, Dullan Dul- 
ach, thou proudest of men! My Lord Gorromo could 
be counted amongst the great ones of this earth. I 
have not been for forgetting the pride of thy race. 
But having once looked upon Glava, he never more 
could tear his eyes away. His love grew and grew, 
spreading like a plant that covers the earth with its 
blossoms. His heart could have been likened unto 
an ever-leaping flame that no wind could extinguish; 
for, strange as it may seem to thee, Dullan Dulach, 
there are some men that love thus.” 

"And Glava?” asked the proud man with bated 

breath. 

"And Glava—is thy daughter!” cried the old 
woman harshly. "Of thy very flesh and blood. She 
took; and took all that he gave her, nor was she for 
knowing how much she took. And when he had 
filled her brim full with love, she turned her face from 
him and cast the treasure he had breathed into her at 
another man’s feet.” Volona paused for a moment 
breathless; but before Dullan Dulach could put in a 
word she was again speaking; Ay, for sure and it 




The Voice on the Mountain 


228 


was his love that had prepared her for the great Hour 
of Light; but when came that hour, the torch he 
had put into her hand was borne toward another 
heart. For thus it is that love finds requital here 
upon earth: As thou in other days didst forsake 
Volona Lochanlee, thus did Glava forsake the man 
who loved her, never turning back to read the sorrow 
in his face!’' 

Ever louder grew the old woman’s voice. It rose 
like a great wave through the silence of the room: 
‘Tor thus does the Great One above deal out his 
treasures upon earth, not counting the measure he 
puts into human hands: He will have been allowing 
thee to break Volona’s life; and, caring little for our 
human conception of justice. He was also for allow¬ 
ing thy daughter to revenge old Volona—and she 
never knowing that Volona was her mother, blood of 
her blood!” 

“Why speak of revenge, Volona? In what way 
could this man’s death be requital to thee?” 

“That is because thou art not knowing of the truths 
from behind the stars. One man takes, drinks, emp¬ 
ties, and throws the cup away, and in that case the 
woman it is who must weep; and then a maiden is 
born as fair as the day that rises in the East, and it 
is her turn, I am thinking, to take, to drink, to empty, 
and to throw the cup away! My daughter arose 
paying back to another the wrong that her father did 
unto me; and God alone will be knowing why he 
chooses one for sacrifice and the other for joy! The 





229 


The Voice on the Mountain 


secrets of the Almighty are fearful and not to be con¬ 
ceived by the human mind. It will be a full measure 
of joy and of pain that the Terrible One will be hoard¬ 
ing in his skies, and it will not be mattering to Him 
in His Greatness who receiveth the joy and who the 
pain. Therefore was it written that Volona's head 
should be bowed in the dust whilst Glava's two 
hands were over-small to hold the light that was her 
share in this world.'' 

“Thou art a terrible woman, Volona Lochanlee. 
Dost verily mean that Glava was never told that she 
was living beside a mother's heart?" 

“And it will be the truth thou art saying, Dullan 
Dulach. Think ye that I would be bowing so proud 
a head by telling it that she was the daughter of a 
woman who had once carried wood on her strong 
young back? Nay, nay, Dullan Dulach! And it 
may be for requital that I am on this sad old Earth— 
but not upon the head of the innocent, I am thinking; 
nay, nay! Volona Lochanlee, the wood-cutter's 
daughter, was beautiful in her youth—though not so 
very young, either, when Dullan Dulach cast an eye 
upon her untamed strength—but she will be for re¬ 
membering the pride of the race that cast her aside 
when her day was done. This I will be telling thee: 
if Volona Lochanlee will not have been worthy of be¬ 
ing a mother beneath the face of the sun that shines 
over palace and castle doors, then neither will she 
have been worthy of being a mother beneath the damp 
grey clouds on a mountain top! 




The Voice on the Mountain 


230 

“\ may not be knowing the ways of the Great, but 
I will be knowing the ways of the Heart. And this 
is a thought of my thinking: eagles must remain 
eagles, and they need never be knowing in what nest 
Fate let them be born. A crowned man, I am think¬ 
ing, was Glava’s father: therefore was she of high de¬ 
gree. And prouder was I of being her servant than if 
one day she should look down upon me, knowing me 
to be one who had been cast away. And now, Dullan 
Dulach, of the great grey eyes, what will it be thou 
hast to say to Volona Lochanlee?’' 

For a moment the proud man stood silent, looking 
from the dead face to that of the woman who stood 
upright, defiant, her eyes gleaming from beneath her 
heavy dark brows. ''And maybe thy pride was finer 
than mine, Volona Lochanlee,’' he said sadly at last. 
"But tell me where is our daughter. I would see her, 
for my heart is weary, as my eyes are weary of the 
tinkling-jingling things of this earth. No son hath 
Dullan Dulach within his palace walls, because of his 
beauty the Almighty having called him to happier 
shores; and now I am asking for my daughter. Oh! 
where is she, Volona Lochanlee?’' 

Volona came a step nearer and looked fiercely into 
the crowned man’s face. "And if I am telling thee 
that it is too late, Dullan Dulach—too late? For 
Glava has gone to her Love, and 1 will not be know¬ 
ing which way her feet may have turned. The time 
had come for the young bird to spread wing, so 1 let 




231 


The Voice on the Mountain 


it fly to its mate. It will have reached the heart of 
Love, I am thinking, whilst I, the doubly forsaken 
one, have remained to pray by the dead.'' 

‘Thou art not telling me," cried Dullan Dulach, 
“that thou dost not know whither she has gone? Hast 
thou no love left in thy heart?" 

“It is not for Dullan Dulach to be talking of love 
at all, at all! The part of the old one is over, I am 
thinking; the chill is in my bones. It is on the Edge 
of Silence that my soul is hovering; therefore was it 
written in the stars that Glava should go to her Love, 
stepping over the heart of her mother and of the one 
who loved her too well. It was no part Dullan 
Dulach had in our lives, I am thinking: there¬ 
fore he should not lift his voice as accuser at all, at 
all; four-and-twenty years can wipe out many a 
right." 

“But thou wilt not be saying that thou didst let 
Glava go alone, all alone, into the wide wicked world, 
away from thy mother's heart?" 

“Glava had no mother," said the woman harshly. 
“It was but an old nurse she had—a nurse with a 
silver-white head. Alone she went, with her spear, 
her sword, and her horse. Red-golden was Focco, 
as proud as any steed her father will be riding in 
through the gates of his cities. Not so weary are 
thy bones as mine, Dullan Dulach; for a man of thy 
blood the world is never too wide. Go! Search for 
thy daughter! There are many roads that cross each 




The Voice on the Mountain 


232 


other over the face of the earth, and it may be that 
one day, before thy head be laid low, thou will be 
meeting the daughter of Dullan Dulach beneath the 
face of the sun. 

‘‘Beautiful is Glava as the rising dawn, beautiful as 
the clouds that lift from the storm, beautiful as the 
swan on the deep, beautiful as the snow that the 
moon will be kissing with pale shining lips, beautiful 
as a victory won by the gods; and as sign that she is 
a king’s daughter she will be carrying in her long 
white hand the sword that thou didst give me at the 
hour of her birth. But when Dullan Dulach meets 
his daughter beneath the face of the sun, may he not 
be remembering old Volona Lochanlee, who, having 
never been wife, could never be mother to the 
daughter of a king. Let her name be forgotten, as 
her voice must be forgotten, and forgotten the woe of 
her heart. 

“Some will be putting their pride, I am thinking, 
in, a name; some in sacks of gold; some in a sword; 
some in lands they have conquered; and some in 
hearts they have broken. But the pride of Volona 
Lochanlee is, that she never bowed her head in the 
dust.” 

“And thou dost not even know the name of the man 
she went to?” cried the father. 

“I think I will have been hearing that she called 
him Doochroon,” said Volona. “And when her lips 
said it, it was like a swan flying into the face of the 
moon.” 




233 


The Voice on the Mountain 


‘'And didst thou never tell her that a father she 
had? an old, old father on a throne?” 

“Like unto the sun that shines was Glava, like unto 
the winds that blow, unto the waters that flow, unto 
the clouds that pass; she was not for needing a father, 
a crown, or a throne; her heart was never weighted 
with the why and wherefore that trouble other hearts. 
It was only when love quickened within her that she 
was for asking who she was.” 

“And thou didst not tell her even then? not even 
then, Volona Lochanlee?” 

“And sure I did not tell her even then,” said Volona 
in a dull, revengeful voice. 

The tall man made a gesture of hopelessness. He 
was at a loss to understand the old woman's reason¬ 
ing. It was to him as though he stood before a 
heavy gravestone upon which he dared not tread. 
“And were there no tears in thine eyes when thou 
sawest thy daughter go from thee?” 

“No one, I am thinking, ever paused to count the 
tears of Volona Lochanlee,” said the old one savagely 
“—except perchance Him who sees into places that 
are dark. But when I saw Glava, Dullan Dulach's 
daughter, riding down the mountain side, it was as 
though she had taken her mother s heart with her as a 
shield against the woes of this world. For verily Vo¬ 
lona has no more need of a heart up here in the 
clouds. Yet Focco's hoofs as they rang on the rocks 
were as the sound of nails, I am thinking; of nails 
being driven into my coffin-lid.” 




The Voice on the Mountain 


234 


Night had stolen into the chamber. The two 
strange companions stood in the dark. There was a 
long silence, and then the old man raised his head, 
peering through the obscurity at the woman whom 
once he had loved. "'And shall I leave thee up here 
in the clouds, Volona Lochanlee, or wilt thou come 
down with me into my tired life?’’ 

'dt is too late, I am thinking, Dullan Dulach, for 
my feet to follow thee, were it even to the Gates of 
Paradise. But I will be asking of thee to send thy 
people tomorrow to dig a deep grave for this man 
who lies here silent with his broken heart. Into the 
rock shall he be laid, there where Glava stood in the 
days of the triumph that was given to her by his love. 
In the folds of his crimson mantle will I wrap him, 
and I will place him so that his eyes shall be turned 
toward the pathway over which her feet one day 
perchance may lead her back. And now, for the last 
time, oh! Dullan Dulach, I would be for looking into 
those fierce grey eyes that once were heaven to me.” 
And, moving noiselessly over the floor, Volona fetched 
from beside the hearth a torch, lighted it, and held up 
its flickering flame to the proud man’s face. 

Strange indeed was the look exchanged by the 
lovers of yore, there in the presence of the dead; 
strange, awful, and silent as a meeting beyond the 
grave. Long did they gaze at each other by the 
lurid red light of the torch, whilst the man who had 
loved too well lay beside them silent, distant, and 
dumb. 




235 


The Voice on the Mountain 


Suddenly the crowned man bent forward and, lay¬ 
ing his lips upon the old woman's time-scarred brow, 
said: ‘'And it was springtime once, Volona, my dear 
one—spring-time once in our hearts." 

“And it was thy hand, oh! Dullan Dulach," an¬ 
swered the old woman solemnly, “that once led Vo¬ 
lona Lochanlee to the sources of Love. Therefore 
be thou blessed, oh! Dullan Dulach, blessed all the 
days of thy life!" 

Then the old warrier turned from the woman of 
his youth; and, throwing wide the door, Volona let 
the stranger out into the silence of the night. 

Long did she stand there on the threshold, torch 
in hand, like unto some ancient figure of woe that 
dumbly looks down upon the inexplicable sorrows of 
life. Then, turning slowly, she re-entered the house. 
Shutting the door behind her, she went over to the 
couch. Fixing the torch at the feet of the corpse, the 
lonely old woman knelt down on the stones to pray 
for the dead. . . . 

When the sun rose at dawn over the sleeping ocean, 
the torch had burned out. But Volona Lochanlee 
was still praying—praying for the dead. 


THE END 










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